Johnny clapped a heavy palm to Marcus's shoulder as he eased onto the chipped concrete of the church's outer steps. He pressed a cold Stubbs into Marcus's grip, the glass slick with condensation, label peeling faint from curb chills. The pat pulled back casual, but the weight hung, frayed purple flags fluttering from a lowrider antenna in the lot as the morning haze thickened.
Most of the Saints had peeled out quick after the rite's dust settled, Julius barking clipped orders from the crest—Lin, hit the east vein, crown our tags 'fore Kings sniff it; Dex, ghost the warehouse for Carnales' next haul—his voice rolling gravel authority down the risers, gold chain swaying as he turned inside, the warped doors groaning shut like a hatch sealing dive. The air hummed with the echo: gravel scuffed raw, faint copper tang of split knuckles cutting the diesel rot off Third Street, the last lowriders coughing to life with hydraulic hisses and bass thumps rattling the eaves, rims spinning divots in potholes as they vanished into the smog.
Gat dropped beside him with a grunt, hooking his own bottle's cap against the jagged step—pop sharp, foam bubbling over the rim like a suppressed flash. He tilted back for a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good to have you back, Kane. Took your ass long enough to come home—five years ghostin', leavin' me to hold the Row solo while you played hero in the sand. You have fun?" The words scraped low, that Chicago snap undercutting the grin, half-lidded behind the bronze rims as he drummed idle fingers on his knee.
Marcus twisted the cap off against the same chipped edge—scritch gritty, chill seeping through scarred knuckles like a reset after the circle's burn. He gulped deep, the malty bite chasing the ghost of his split lip, pooling warm in his gut amid the dull throb of fresh welts. The Row's hush wrapped 'em rare and tight: distant bass thumping like a migraine two blocks over, a hooker shuffling past with a bruised-lip drawl hawking smokes, the spire leaning crooked against the bruise-purple sky. "Yeah, plenty," he said, voice rough from the fight's aftermath, setting the bottle on his knee with a faint clink. "Started out humpin' rucks as a grunt, eatin' dirt for breakfast. Then they bumped me up—Recon stuff, kickin' doors in the Middle East. Fallujah, Mosul, shitholes turnin' into killboxes on bad calls. Dropped enough tangos to lose count... each one just another day. Loved the hell outta it, man—no bullshit, just you and them, and you make sure it's them droppin'."
Gat's laugh came short and mean, a bark that cut the air as he took another swig, the bottle sweating down his wrist. "Sounds like you, Kane—always turnin' shit sideways, leavin' those suit-wearin' pricks scratchin' their heads." He bumped Marcus's shoulder light, the contact solid as a fireteam nod. "Row's been thin without your cold ass backin' me up. Julius calls the shots, but we need a crazy ass motherfucka that ready throw lead. "
Marcus nodded slow, the beer bottle sweating cool against his palm as he rolled it between his fingers, the faint clink of glass on concrete underscoring the Row's morning drag—distant hydraulics hissing like a lowrider flexing its scars, a corner hustler hawking blunts with a gravel cough two blocks over. The steps felt solid under him, chipped edges biting into his cargos like old reminders, the welts from the circle throbbing dull but welcome, a badge that said you're in now, no half-measures. Julius's name hung in his head like a loose thread—guy carried weight, that much was clear from the rally's fire and the way the Saints scattered on his word, but the Row had chewed up and spat out a hundred would-be kings since Marcus bounced. "So who is Julius, really? Don't ring a bell from back in the day. He some defector tryin' to carve his own slice outta this shithole, or what?"
Gat waved a hand in that lazy so-so flick, like he was brushing off a punk's weak jab, the bottle dangling loose from his fingers as he slouched back against the step. "Nah, Julius ain't no fresh defector. Dude flew VK colors back in the day—deep in it, runnin' with Benjamin motherfucking King from the jump. Helped that gold-grilled bastard boot the Los Carnales outta Sunnyvale Gardens, turnin' the neighborhood into their playground. Word is, they started the Vice Kings together from nothin'—yellow crowns, hip-hop beats, the whole thing. Julius bailed on the flag later, no clue why. Came to the Row and went quiet. Shit, wasn't until the Rollerz revved up and started joyridin' over everybody's ass, he ditched the quiet life and started the Saints."
Marcus took another pull from the Stubbs, the fizz biting sharp as he chewed on it—Julius as VK old blood tracked, that quiet command laced with ex-king edge, the purple turtleneck under the jacket screamin' my rules now. Row thrived on turncoats like that, flags flippin' faster than lowrider tires, but Gat's shrug said Julius packed more than hustle; guy rallied strays and dropped heat without blinkin'. "And you? Figured you'd link with the Rollerz. Remember a ton of Asian cats jumpin' in when it all started before I left—tuners tear-assin' the Westside like it was theirs."
Gat snorted hard, a wet bark that sprayed foam off his bottle's rim before he slammed half down in one go—the glass thunking heavy on the step, chains rattling like loose rounds. He fixed Marcus with that gold-capped glare behind the shades, lips twisting mean. "Pfft—the fuck my eyes or skin got to do with jack? I ain't no tuner bitch polishin' each others rims. Rollerz? Buncha kids sniffin' nitrous, crashin' daddy's garage for giggles. No balls—just joyride bullshit. Me? I need teeth that bite. Even before the Saints, I spent my time rollin' the bitches for their shit" He nudged Marcus's knee sharp with his own, the bump a quick you feel me? jab, that old spark cracklin' like it had in their corner scraps when "crew" meant a two-man army.
Marcus let out a rough laugh, the sound scraping up from his chest like gravel under tires. Nice to know Gat hadn't changed a damn bit—still all switchblade mouth and zero-fucks stare, the
kind of crazy that made the Row feel like home. He tipped the Stubbs back, sculling the last warm dregs in one long pull, the malt's bitter kick chasing the welts' dull burn down his throat like a chaser for the rite's ache. The empty clinked against his ring as he reared back and chucked it sidearm at the church's concrete fence—bottle sailing lazy through the aor, spinning end-over-end before shattering against the graffiti-scarred barrier with a sharp crack, shards scattering like spent brass across the potholed lot.
"So what're we doin'?" Marcus said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the split lip stinging fresh under the salt, hazel eyes flicking to Gat with that easy lean—boots planted wide on the step, cargos still dusted with circle gravel, the tight black tee pulling across his shoulders like it'd shrunk in the wash. "I assume Julius ain't sendin' us to sit on our asses all day, nursin' brews and watchin' the sunrise?"
Gat matched the move seamless, draining his own bottle in a quick tilt—foam clinging to his gold caps before he hawked it off with a swipe—then hurled it after Marcus's with a casual flick, the glass arcing higher, wilder, exploding against the fence in a spray of green glitter that rained down on a stray cat slinking past, the mangy thing yowling once before bolting into an alley mouth. "You right—ain't no time for benchwarmin' when the Row's beggin' for a boot to the teeth." He stood fluid, chains jangling loose as he stretched his legs, black pants whispering against the step, the .45's print shifting faint under his purple shirt like it was itching for the next draw. "I know a guy. Mechanic, don't fly Rollerz colors—solid, keeps his nose clean but his hands greasy. He's huntin' a classic ride, somethin' vintage. Snag it for him, he drops two Gs in our pocket, and signs on full for the Saints. Hook us up with mods, whatever we need."
Marcus nodded once, sharp and settled, the idea slotting easy in his head like a fresh mag—mechanic meant rides that didn't cough out mid-chase, lowriders jacked Saints-purple with armor that laughed at .50 cal greetings, a edge the Corps had drilled into him: gear wins wars, not guts alone. He pushed up from the step, the Krukov's strap settling diagonal across his chest like an old scar itching for air, welts pulling tight under the tee but ignored, just another layer of his skin. "Mechanic'll come in handy—can't run the Row on foot forever. Any idea where we snag this classic he wants? Or we wingin' it?"
Gat's grin flashed quick and mean, gold caps winking as he jerked his head toward the lot, already striding off with that predator lope—boots crunching gravel like it owed him money, The purple Venom squatted at the curb like a crouched beast, classic lines all sleek aggression under the Saints dip—hood vents flared like nostrils flaring for the hunt, chrome rims spinning lazy shadows on the asphalt. "Yeah, I got a line on it. Parked up in some Westside ghost lot, Rollerz actin' like it's theirs—easy snatch if we hit quick. Come on, I'm drivin'." He yanked the driver's door with a creak of hinges protesting the dawn chill, sliding in smooth as a blade into
sheath, keyring jangling as he fired the ignition hot—the V8 snarling to life like a dog off the leash, bass thumping faint from hidden speakers tuned to some gospel-hip-hop remix that twisted hymns into payback anthems. The passenger door hung open expectant, Gat's shaded gaze flicking back over the rim of his glasses, that pitiless brown underneath sparking challenge.
Marcus tossed the AK in the back with a thud that rattled the speakers, dropping into the passenger seat—the leather creaking under his weight, smelling of oil and old leather laced with Gat's bay rum, the dash scarred from too many peels and pursuits, a Saints fleur-de-lis sticker peeling at the edges like a fresh tattoo still healing. He buckled in loose, hand drifting instinctive to the Vice-9's grip where it rode holstered on his hip, the KA-BAR's weight balancing it perfect on the other side—thumb tracing the fuller absent, a habit from FOB foxholes where downtime meant sharpen or snap. The Venom lurched forward as Gat punched the gas, tires chewing gravel with a spit of divots before biting asphalt, the classic muscle car surging into Third Street's vein like a bullet finding vein, lowriders parting haze ahead as the Row swallowed 'em whole—sirens keening distant.
Gat's laugh barked over the Venom's guttural snarl, windows cranked down to let the wind whip through like a cheap high—blonde spikes on his crown flattening wild against the rush, chains rattling loose against his chest as the classic muscle car carved Third Street's veins, tires humming hot over fractured asphalt that buckled from too many pothole wars. "Hold tight—this ride's got bite, and I'm feelin' hungry." The engine growled deeper under his boot, surging them past a cluster of early-shift bangers nursing blunts by a gutted hydrant, their side-eyes flicking lazy at the purple blur before melting back into the haze, lowriders idling curbside like territorial mutts scenting the alpha peel out.
They shot through the Row's arteries quick and dirty, the Venom eating blocks like they owed it rent—neon signs flickering half-dead in the morning light, hookers shuffling off-shift with makeup smeared like war paint, a distant pop-pop echoing from some midday beef jumping the gun, the city's pulse thumping erratic under the smog's chokehold. KRhyme FM blasted low through the speakers, bass rumbling subtle like a heartbeat on life support, some local track sampling gospel hooks over trap beats that twisted hymns into middle fingers—Row's own soundtrack, unfiltered and unforgiving. Marcus slouched deeper into the passenger seat, the leather creaking under his cargos, one hand drumming idle on the armrest scarred from Gat's old peel-outs, the other ghosting the Vice-9's grip out of habit as the wind clawed at his close-cropped hair.
"So, Aisha made it big," Marcus said, voice cutting casual over the radio's murmur, eyes scanning the blur of tenements and chain-link fences whipping past—faded VK yellow tags
bleeding into fresh Saints purple crowns, the Row's turf map rewriting itself in spray and spite. He'd caught snippets on the Greyhound ride in, her voice crackling through static-laced headphones like a ghost from juvie mixtapes, all smooth hooks and Row grit polished for the charts.
Gat laughed again, a short, vicious snap that drowned the track's hook for a beat, one hand loose on the wheel as the Venom fishtailed a corner, rear end kissing a dumpster with a metallic kiss that sprayed sparks like confetti from hell. "Shit, I wondered if you'd caught wind of her tracks. Yeah, local girl put her name in lights—Row's own superstar, droppin' platinum while the rest of us scrape for scraps."
Marcus smirked faint, the scar on his cheek pulling tight as he watched a Rollerz lowrider peel the opposite way, blue rims flashing taunt under the sun—tires squealing like a challenge unanswered, for now. "You still fuckin' her? Or is Johnny's gat not up to snuff these days, leavin' her chasin' spotlights instead?"
"Fuck off," Gat shot back, the grin twisting mean behind the bronze rims, but no real heat in it—just that old jab-cross rhythm they'd honed in pool-hall scraps, his free hand flipping Marcus the bird quick before dropping back to shift gears, the Venom lunging harder through a yellow light that hung like a dare. "We still doin' our thing—on and off, like the Row's power grid. She tours, I handle heat; works 'cause neither of us pretends it's forever. You know how it is—chase the high, dodge the crash." He eased off the gas a hair as they hit Westside's edge, the streets narrowing into ricochet alleys where Rollerz tags crowned every corner like blue-veined scars, the radio fading to static before snapping back with Aisha's voice crooning low, all velvet threat over a beat that thumped like a .45's heartbeat. Gat's eyes flicked the rearview—habit, always checking tails—before settling on the road ahead, the ghost lot looming two blocks out, chain-link sagging under faded "No Trespass" signs that laughed at Stilwater's rules. "Besides, if it was just about the lay, I'd stick to one-night beefs. Aisha's got fire—keeps shit interestin'. Now shut up and spot—should see it in a sec." The Venom prowled slower now, engine idling hungry, the hunt's edge sharpening as the lot's shadows swallowed the sun, tires crunching gravel like bones under boot.
The Venom prowled the Westside's gutted veins at a crawl, Gat easing off the gas to let the engine's low rumble blend with the neighborhood's ragged breath—tires whispering over oil-slick asphalt cracked like old fault lines, chain-link fences rattling faint in the breeze off Lake Styxx, distant waves lapping the shore like a hangover sloshing in your skull. Morning haze clung thick here, turning the sun to a smeared bruise overhead, Rollerz tags bombing every corner in faded blue scrawl—crowns crossed out with spray-can fury, lowriders ghosting past with hydraulics hissing territorial, drivers slinging side-eye from under flatbills cocked sideways.
Marcus leaned forward in the passenger seat, hazel eyes narrowing against the glare off a rusted warehouse roof, the duffel wedged at his feet shifting with the car's sway. There—tucked just inside a narrow alley mouth, chain-link fence sagging under a crown of barbed wire coiled like a nest of pissed-off snakes, the glint of chrome catching the light wrong, too clean for this scrapheap. A Rumbler, '69 Eagle Rod Runner under the dust and neglect, body lines all brutal curves and flared fenders in faded cherry red, hood vents scarred but straight, rims stock but gleaming like they'd never kissed a pothole. Condition screamed cherry—paint chipped but original, no ricochet dents or lowrider hacks, engine bay probably purring sweet if you cracked it open. Bingo. "Stop," he said, voice flat and clipped, thumb already hooking the door latch as the words hung brief.
The Venom lurched to a halt, brakes biting soft against the curb with a faint hiss of rubber on grit, Gat killing the engine mid-rev—the sudden quiet heavy, broken only by the distant thump of bass from a peeling lowrider two blocks back, a hooker calling out lazy from a stoop with a voice like smoked glass. "You see it?" Gat asked, half-turn already, his hand drifting instinctive to the wheel's crown as if the car was an extension itching for the peel.
Marcus nodded sharp toward the alley, the chain-link's shadow swallowing the Rumbler's nose like a dare, barbed wire glinting mean under the wire. He twisted in the seat, arm stretching back to snag the Krukov from the rear footwell—polymer stock cool and scarred under his palm, the sling whispering as he yanked it free, curved mag's weight settling familiar across his chest like an old grudge reloaded. "Right there—Rumbler, mint shape. Mechanic's wet dream if we bag it clean."
Gat popped his door with a creak of hinges protesting the damp, boots hitting pavement with a gravel crunch that echoed off the alley walls, his frame uncoiling loose but loaded as he circled to the trunk—keyring jangling faint like loose change, the lock clicking open with a metallic snick that cut the hush. Marcus swung out his side, steel-toed boots chewing the same grit as he rounded the rear, the trunk yawning wide under the morning's piss-yellow light.
Inside, the arsenal squatted like a Row armory on wheels: a spare K6 Krukov braced stock-down against the felt liner, its banana mag curved like a hook waiting to gut; twin Vice-9s nestled side-by-side in battered holsters, polymer grips scuffed from too many draws; a Louisville Slugger propped upright, aluminum barrel taped thick with black athletic wrap and crowned in purple Sharpie scrawl; the GDHC .50 beast laid heavy across the spare tire, barrel oiled black and mean, cylinder yawning empty but promising thunder; a Tombstone shotgun racked beside it, pump-action scarred from house calls, shells loaded fat with buckshot that'd turn a door to confetti. Ammo boxes stacked neat in the corners—brass 7.62 for the AKs gleaming dull, 9mm clips for the Vice-9s stacked like poker chips, .50 cal rounds heavy as sin in
their tray, the whole mess smelling of cosmoline and copper promise, faint gun oil beading on the felt like dew on a grave.
Marcus let out a low whistle, the sound slicing the quiet as his eyes traced the haul—hand drifting to brush the Tombstone's stock, thumb testing the pump's slide with a faint chuck-chuck that echoed his pulse. "Gat's got gats. Fuckin' armory on four wheels—enough here to crown a whole block purple."
Gat chuckled, the bark low and rough like he'd swallowed gravel, gold caps flashing brief as he reached in for the Tombstone—fingers wrapping the stock sure as a handshake, slinging it under one arm with the pump dangling casual, like it was a six-pack instead of a room-clearer. "Damn fuckin' right—can't run the Row on prayers and pocket knives. Stocked this bitch myself after the last beef with those VK pricks; Tanya's crew tried a drive-by, all I had was a glock and my dick in my hand." He jerked his chin toward the ammo stack, chains shifting with the motion. "Grab some juice for that AK you got—don't want it coughin' if the Rollerz show."
Marcus dipped in, scarred knuckles popping as he snagged an extra banana mag for the Krukov—30 rounds of 7.62 brass heavy in his palm, the curve fitting his grip like a promise—and two spare clips for the Vice-9, 15-rounders each, sliding 'em into his cargo pockets with a clink that settled snug against his thigh. The weight grounded him, familiar as a ruck hump, the Reaper itch coiling low in his gut like the first pull on a trigger—gear up, stack the odds, drop the fools.
He racked the Krukov's bolt quick for good measure, chamber chunking home empty but ready, slinging it diagonal across his chest as Gat slammed the trunk with a thud that rattled the fence. The alley loomed darker now, the Rumbler's red flanks winking through the chain-link like bait on a hook, barbed wire humming faint in the breeze—a lowrider's bass thumping closer from the cross street, tires crunching gravel like company inbound. Gat's grin hooked vicious, Tombstone pump chucking once under his arm. "Tools sharp? Let's snatch this cherry and peel—two Gs and a wrench in our pocket." The wind off the lake carried a chill bite, sirens keening faint two blocks east, the hunt's edge sharpening as they ghosted toward the fence, boots silent on the approach.
Marcus ghosted forward combat-low, Krukov cleared and up in a braced patrol grip—muzzle tracking the alley's throat like a hound on scent, polymer stock wedged firm against his shoulder, curved mag's weight pulling steady as the sights ghosted the chain-link's shadow where barbed wire curled mean under the midday haze. The welts from the morning's rite pulled tight across his ribs with each step, a dull reminder that today's math started at even, but the Reaper coil had him locked: breath steady, eyes scanning vectors—rooftops for spotters, alley
mouth for lurkers, the faint clink of wire against post like a tripwire whispering test me. No Corps ROE here, just Row rules: drop 'em quiet if you could, loud if you had to, and always leave the board flipped.
Gat fell in at his six with a loose swagger that ate the distance easy—boots scraping faint gravel like he owned the shadows, Tombstone slung casual under one arm, pump-action dangling like a threat on a leash—but he caught Marcus's low profile a beat in, shaking his head quick with a muffled snort, that gold-capped grin flashing brief behind the bronze rims. "Shit, soldier boy—lead on, I'll play wingman." He racked the shotgun's slide subtle, a low chuck-chuck that chambered buckshot fat and hungry, falling in step tight now, the barrel rising level as they hugged the alley's flanking wall—crumbling brick scarred with blue Rollerz tags, graffiti crowns crossed out in hasty purple drips like Saints' middle fingers etched overnight. The cover was shit: knee-high at best, chain-link humming five feet off, but it bought angles, kept their flanks from the open street where a lowrider's bass thumped distant like a migraine building.
Voices drifted out clearer as they closed—lazy drawl laced with Westside twang. "...ny should be able to trick this bitch out—hydros, neon underglow, make her squat like a Zimos on steroids."
"Bitch please—as if the boss ain't givin' this ride straight to Joseph. Everyone knows he loves his shit vintage. Man's got a hard-on for classics; this Rumbler's his wet dream on wheels."
Marcus threw up a fist at the corner's lip, halting sharp—boots rooting silent on the grit, hazel eyes narrowing to slits as he eased his head out covert, just enough for a sector sweep without silhouette. Three tangos clustered on the Rumbler's far side, backs to a wall of a worn down building like they owned the ghost lot's shadows: skinny Asian kid with a tire iron slung over one shoulder, baggy jeans sagging under a blue flatbill cocked back, his free hand gesturing wild like he was already modding the ride in his head; fat Black guy posted wide, pistol loose in his grip—a beat-to-hell NR4, thumb idly on the safety—his gut straining a stained wifebeater, gold chain peeking like a taunt; white boy leaning casual on the trunk, sawn-off shotgun cradled like a kid's toy, barrel filed short and mean, his buzzcut head nodding lazy as he hawked a loogie into the gravel. Wait—fourth shadow flickering near the driver's door, blue cap bobbing low as fingers worked the lock with hooked picks, scritch-scritch dancing faint against the wire's hum, his back to the approach like he was daring the universe to interrupt.
He pulled back smooth, melting against the wall's rough bite—brick flaking under his shoulder like old scabs—and twisted to Gat, voice dropping to a threadbare whisper that cut the wind's low moan. "Four boggies. Rollerz—tire iron on the skinny, pistol on the fat one, sawn-off on the white kid. Fourth's pickin' the door, no eyes out."
Gat's grin split wide and wolfish, gold caps winking as he leaned in close enough for the faint whiff of bay rum and cordite to ghost the air between 'em, his free hand flexing the Tombstone's pump once—chuck muffled against his thigh, buckshot racking home like a promise spat. "Fuck yeah." His eyes sparked hot behind the opaque lenses, that pitiless brown underneath coiling eager, the swagger bleeding back into his stance like it was armor. "So, what's the plan, soldier boy? Guns blazin', or you goin' all stealth and fancy with that military shit—drop 'em quiet?" The question hung low, laced with that Chicago snap—half-jab, half-hunger, his boot shifting gravel faint as the lockpick's scritch picked up tempo, the Rollerz' chatter drifting careless: "...Joseph'll flip—man, this engine's pure..." The alley's shadows deepened with the sun's climb, barbed wire humming like a live wire, the Rumbler's red flanks winking through the fence like bait begging the hook. Gat's finger ghosted the trigger guard, ready to dance, waiting on Marcus's call.
Marcus leaned in closer to the wall's crumbling bite, the Krukov's stock wedged firm against his shoulder, polymer cool and scarred under his palm as he thumbed the safety off with a faint click that blended into the alley's low hum—hazel eyes locked on Gat's through the shadow's edge, voice dropping to that scraped whisper honed from FOB whispers where one wrong syllable meant tangos stacking your rack. "We go loud. I'll lay covering fire so you can flank 'em—pin the skinny and fat one from the fence, buy you the angle on the white kid and picker. I'll try to drop 'em clean regardless, but we don't want to swiss-cheese the ride; mechanic wants it cherry, not ventilated."
Gat's grin hooked wider, that gold-capped flash cutting the gloom like a fresh chamber. "Alrigggght—this is a plan I can get behind. You suppress, I flank and feed 'em lead." No bullshit in his tone, just that Chicago snap laced with eager bite—the kind that said finally, some teeth in the game—his stance uncoiling loose as he ghosted left along the wall, boots silent on the grit, Tombstone rising level under his arm like an extension itching for the swing. He bumped Marcus's elbow quick with his own, chains clinking faint like a reload cue. "On three—don't frag the cherry, or your walkin'."
Marcus exhaled slow, chest steady under the tight tee's cling, the welts from the rite pulling faint but ignored—fuel, not fracture—as he squared the Krukov's sights on the fence's gap, polymer stock biting his trap just right, curved mag's weight a promise against his ribs. One... two... The Rollerz chatter drifted careless, the lockpick's scritch picking up tempo like a heartbeat skipping toward its end: "...ph's gonna shit gold when he sees this beast..." Three.
The Krukov barked first—crack-crack-crack stitching the chain-link in a tight burst, 7.62 rounds chewing divots from the fence like it was paper, brass arcing hot in lazy spins as the skinny's tire iron clattered to the gravel mid-gesture, his flatbill snapping back with a crimson bloom across the shoulder, the kid staggering with a yelped fuck! that sprayed spittle and surprise. The fat one
wheeled wild, NR4 whipping up too slow—Marcus tracked the recoil smooth, follow-up stitching center-mass through the links, the rounds punching through gut and wifebeater in a wet thump-thump, folding the banger backward over the Rumbler's hood with a meaty slap, his gold chain tangling in the grille like fool's jewelry on a corpse. Sparks flew from the wire as a stray round kissed barb, the fence rattling like a cage protesting the storm, but the ride held clean—no divots on that cherry red flank, just the shadow of death dancing across the fenders.
Gat was motion in the chaos, flanking low and feral—shadow peeling left along the wall's lip, Tombstone pumping once as he vaulted the corner with a grunt, boots hitting the lot's gravel like a promise kept. The white kid spun toward the noise, sawn-off swinging wild in panic—barrel yawning black—but Gat was faster, pump racking buckshot home mid-stride, the shotgun's roar blooming thunderous: BOOM, the blast chewing the kid's chest open in a pink mist that painted the Rumbler's trunk red, sawn-off clattering useless as the body ragdolled backward, buzzcut skull cracking against the tailgate with a dull thud that echoed wet off the warehouse bricks. The picker froze mid-scritch, blue cap bobbing up like a target begging mercy—picks dropping from nerveless fingers as he fumbled for a piece in his waistband—but Gat closed the gap in two strides, Tombstone's muzzle kissing the kid's temple point-blank. "Night-night." BOOM—the shot vaporized half the cap and the ambitions underneath, the picker crumpling knees-first into the gravel, brains peppering the driver's door in gray-pink abstract, the lock finally clicking open unbidden.
The alley fell ragged-quiet in the smoke's curl, cordite stinging sharp over the lake's brackish rot, brass tinkling like loose change amid the sprawl—skinny wheezing pink foam against the fence, fat one gurgling slack over the hood, white kid's sawn-off steaming empty, picker's blue cap smoldering in the dust like a spent dud. No alarms wailed yet, just the distant bass thump and a stray dog's bark echoing off the warehouses, the Rumbler's engine bay humming faint invitation as the driver's door hung ajar. Marcus lowered the Krukov slow, slide locked on empty but the mag still fat with rounds, scanning sectors one last sweep—hazel flicking rooftops, alley flanks, the cross street's mouth—before stepping through the fence's gap, wire snagging his cargos brief like a reluctant goodbye. "Clear. Ride's ours—two Gs and a wrench, plus four less Rollerz breathin' our air."
Gat racked the Tombstone empty, smoke wisping from the barrel as he slung it under his arm, kicking the picker's body aside casual with his stomper—the corpse flopping loose against the chain-link like discarded trash, gold chain from the fat one winking dull in the gravel."Fuckin' music to my ears," Gat growled, yanking the driver's door wide with a creak of hinges that sounded like the Rumbler was waking up pissed and ready to bite. He slid in smooth, leather seats groaning under him like they remembered better days—keys glinting on the sun visor, dangling like bait he'd been waitin' to snatch. The V8 caught on the first crank, purring low and mean, exhaust burbling faint as he stabbed the gas once—tires chewing gravel in a quick spin
that spat divots toward the slumped bodies, the chain-link rattling like it was applauding the mess.
Gat leaned out the Rumbler's window a hair, gold caps flashing mean in the midday glare as he jerked a thumb toward the Venom idling at the curb like a purple watchdog itching for the chase. He hawked the keys from his pocket—ring jangling faint like loose brass—and chucked 'em arc-quick, the metal spinning end-over-end through the haze. Marcus snagged 'em mid-air with a snap of scarred fingers, the cool bite of the fob grounding him like a fresh mag slap, the weight settling heavy in his palm as if it was already tallying the miles ahead. "Mechanic's gonna cream—let's drop this cherry and collect. Julius'll wanna know before the heat rolls. You take the Venom and tail me—keep it tight, eyes out for Rollerz tails sniffin' our dust."
Marcus nodded sharp, once—hazel locking Gat's shaded stare for a beat, the math ticking silent: lead dog sets pace, six covers the bite. He slung the Krukov back over his shoulder with a thump of polymer kissing strap, the curved mag settling heavy across his chest like a fresh grudge loaded for bear, the sling digging a groove into the tight black tee that pulled across his traps. "Copy—you lead, I'll cover the six." No bullshit in his tone, just that scraped Corps edge, voice low and steady as overwatch, the welts from the rite throbbing faint under his skin like a low hum reminding him the day's tab was still open. He ghosted back to the Venom, boots crunching the same blood-flecked gravel that crunched under the Rollerz' cooling heaps—crick-crick sharp against the chain-link's rattle, the copper tang of fresh cordite clinging to his cargos like a signature.
The door thunked shut behind him with a solid finality, leather seat still warm from Gat's heat, molding to his frame like it remembered the weight of bad bets and worse peels. Keyring slapped the ignition, the V8 barking alive under his palm—cough-growl rumbling through the dash like a dog shaking off sleep, lights flickering orange across the gauges like old habits dying hard, the faint scent of bay rum and oil wafting from the vents. Marcus slotted the gearshift home with a clunk that echoed his pulse, easing the pedal smooth as he nosed the Venom a beat behind the Rumbler's red taillights—tires humming soft on the asphalt.
Marcus felt the grin crack his face—scar tugging tight, raw and real, the kind that chased the welts' burn and the Row's haze like it belonged there.
It was good to be home.