Page 42 of The Street Disciples
Whit: Jacket clean, boss.
Unknown: We good?
I stared at that last one a second longer, thumb hovering but not answering. Unknown always meant somebody was nervous or dangerous. Either way, silence was the response they deserved. I pocketed the phone, scanned the street below again, and shifted my weight like I was ready to bail. Because in Lyon Crest, you’re always ready to bail.
I didn’t answer Unknown callers. I learned that the day Sal died.
I killed the engine and swung a leg off, boots sinking into mud near the curb. The sound of laughter floated up from the yard, light and jagged, cutting through the tension that clung to the block like fog. I adjusted my gloves, tugging them tighter, and checked the perimeter one last time—alleyways dark but breathing, windows lit but still. The smell of food and exhaust hung thick in the night air, a reminder that danger didn’t always smell like gunpowder.
Walking down the slope, I kept my stride slow, hands loose at my sides. A few heads turned; eyes narrowed, then dipped. Respect or fear—I didn’t care which, as long as it worked. The gate loomed ahead, strung with cheap lights that flickered like a dying pulse. Beyond it, Tino’s yard buzzed with life: bikes lined information like teeth in a grin, men posted at corners with that casual tension you only get from years of expecting war. The closer I got, the quieter it seemed, conversations lowering, laughter thinning. Even music from the stereo seemed to falter when my boots hit the gravel.
I scanned faces as I walked—Tony adjusting his camera strap like it was a lifeline, Mouse hustling between tables, nervous energy rolling off him. Jinx leaned against a fence post, cigarette glowing like a threat, eyes on me but not saying a word. I liked that about him. He didn’t need to speak; his presence did all the talking. I stopped just inside the gate and let the tension settle, my paranoia sharpening every detail—the way one man’s hand hovered a little too close to his waistband, how a shadow shifted in an upstairs window across the street, the subtle buzz of radios a block over. Something was brewing tonight. I could smell it in the rain-soaked concrete.
A car pulled up behind me quiet like a thoughtful lie. It crept slow, tires whispering on wet pavement, lights off like it had something to hide. I clocked it in the mirror and didn’t move. When it stopped, I already knew who it was. Saint. He didn’t get out. He didn’t flash. He sat and let presence do what sirens try to. I walked to his window because I respected men who didn’t need to move to be seen.
“You wanna tell me what you scribbled on her door.” He interrogated, voice level, like a man with enough conviction to kill you and still sleep that night.
“A crown,” I answered. “It’s her block as much as mine.”
“She doesn’t want your symbols.”
“She wears one around her neck every night,” I argued, leaning closer to his cracked window so my reflection bent in his rearview. Saint’s eyes flickered, sharp as razors, like he was trying to decide if he was allowed to respect me or needed to bury me instead.
“She wears vows,” he corrected.
“Vows are crowns you can’t pawn,” I informed him. “Relax, Saint. I ain’t counting her breaths. I’m counting Ro’s excuses.”
He didn’t blink. “He’s not scared of you.”
“He’s scared of himself,” I countered, and stepped back because I could feel his patience timing out. Men like him ended fights quick. I preferred long one.
A new sound cut through the hiss of the rain—a growl, heavy, but hella familiar. The kind of engine note that announced itself even if it came quiet. I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Ro’s R1 slid into view like a black ghost, twin halos cutting through steam rising from puddles. He parked crooked, like he always did, habit not arrogance.
Saint’s eyes moved but nothing else did. “You call him, or he follow the scent?”
I smirked. “Sometimes you don’t have to send an invite when a man knows the table is setting itself.”
Ro killed the engine and swung his leg over, helmet in hand, chain glinting like it remembered every fight we’d ever had. He walked slow, scanning, shoulders heavy. Not nervous—never that. But cautious. Lyon Crest would eat a man alive for showing fear, and he knew it.
“You got a reason for this meet, Trigger?” he asked firmly, voice gravel but steady.
“Yeah,” I replied, folding my arms. “Friday. Community night. Cameras, sheriffs, and every man who owes a debt or a favor. You’re front and center.”
He frowned. “You throwing a block party now?”
“Call it what you want,” I stated. “But you’re speaking. You’re smiling. You’re showing the city that the Disciples still run these streets.”
He tilted his head, scanning me, scanning Saint. “And what’s the catch?”
Saint finally spoke, low but sharp. “You walk out alive.”
Ro chuckled without humor, dropping his helmet to his side. “Sounds like a setup.”
I stepped forward, rain running down my face. “It’s a stage. What happens on it is up to you. But if you’re gonna wear Sal’s crown, you better prove you can hold it without getting blood on the carpet.”
His jaw tightened. For a second, the three of us stood in silence—me, the man who replaced Sal, and the shadow who watched everything. The rain fell harder, a chorus to the tension.
Ro finally nodded once. “I’ll be there. But if this is a stunt, Trigger, you won’t live to regret it.”
