Page 47 of The Street Disciples
She stared at me like I’d slapped her. “So that’s it? We just sit here, waitin’ for ‘em to spin back?”
“We sit here, and I make sure they regret even thinkin’ about it,” I promised, voice low, controlled. “I ain’t lettin’ nobody touch you. I ain’t lettin’ nobody touch me neither. But this—this is what life looks like when you tied to a name like Zore.”
She looked down, whispering almost to herself, “I didn’t ask for this.”
“Neither did I,” I shot back, sharper than I meant. I softened it with a sigh. “But here we are.”
I glanced at Tarnesha again. She was hugging herself, knees pulled up, a tremor in her body she couldn’t control. She wasn’t built for this life, and I knew it. But she stayed, anyway. That was loyalty or love—I wasn’t sure which, and I wasn’t sure if either would keep her alive.
I didn’t answer her right away. Instead, I slid down the hallway low, muzzle sweeping every doorway. The smell of gunpowder clung to the curtains, mixed with the chemical sting of drywall dust. My boots left faint prints in a trail of shattered glass leading back to the window. I stepped over them careful,crouching by the frame, scanning for muzzle flashes down the block. Just mist and a porch light swinging in the breeze. The street was calm now. Too calm.
I swept through the kitchen next, Glock tight in my grip, peeking into every shadow. The refrigerator hummed soft like it didn’t know bullets had just chewed through our morning. Cupboards creaked open under my hand, empty save for boxes of cereal and cheap cups. No sign of forced entry. Whoever hit us wanted to make a statement without stepping inside. I moved toward the bathroom, checking the shower curtain, the window—still locked. No footprints on the tile, just water marks from Tarnesha’s shower.
The living room was a mess of glass, wood splinters, and the sharp smell of gun oil. I crouched low, tracing the bullet holes through the blinds, measuring angles in my head. Shooter was across the street, car height, probably leaning out the driver’s side window. Professional enough to avoid collateral damage. This wasn’t some random drive-by. This was for me.
I cleared every corner, opening closets, sweeping under the bed where Tarnesha still sat curled up, knees tight against her chest. Her eyes followed me like I was a stranger. When I finally holstered my Glock, I stayed crouched near the bed. “It’s clean,” I muttered. She didn’t move. Just stared.
I went back to the front, closed the blinds, and dragged a heavy chair in front of the busted window. The wind slipped through like whispers, cold against my neck. I pushed a blanket over the chair, a temporary barricade. It wouldn’t stop bullets, but it would give me half a second’s warning if they came back. Half a second was life or death in the Crest.
I gathered the shattered glass piece by piece, every sharp edge tinkling against the dustpan. Each sound was loud in the silence, loud enough to remind me this wasn’t over. Tarnesha sniffled in the background, her sobs muffled by the thick hoodieshe hid in. I set the broom against the wall, clicked off the lights, and let darkness take the apartment. Easier to move that way. Easier to hear.
The place was silent now, save for Tarnesha’s shaky breaths and the faint drip of rain leaking through the shattered window frame. The tension was thick, a weight pressing against my shoulders, heavier than the Glock at my hip. We weren’t safe. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But for now, the house was clean, and that had to be enough.
We sat in silence, her quiet sobs mixing with the faint smell of gunpowder and rain seeping through the busted window. My head was spinning—not just from the shooting, but everything piling up since I’d touched back down in Lyon Crest. Nova’s face. Saint’s cold loyalty. Trigger’s shadow over every block. Sal’s ghost sitting on my shoulders like a reminder I couldn’t shake. And now this? This was a war declaration, and I didn’t even know whose hand signed it.
After I finished the sweep, I headed back for our room. Tarnesha was packing her things in a rushed manner, hands trembling as she shoved clothes into a duffel. Her nails clicked against hangers, the smell of her vanilla body spray fighting with the gunpowder still stuck in the air. The room was dim, lit only by the streetlight bleeding in through the broken blinds, streaking across her face in sharp lines. She wouldn’t even look at me, jaw tight, eyes flicking back and forth like she was calculating her next move. Every zip of that bag was her heartbeat trying to outrun this life, echoing sharp in the stillness.
“Where you think you goin’?” My voice came out low, gravel in my throat.
She whipped around, eyes glassy, lip quivering but jaw locked like she was done crying. “Anywhere but here,” she snapped, slinging the strap over her shoulder. Her voice cracked but carried weight, like she’d been holding that answer forhours. “I ain’t stayin’ in no house where bullets come knockin’ before the sun come up. I told you, Ro. I told you I ain’t wanna come back to this block.”
I leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, gun still heavy on my hip. The hallway light flickered behind me, buzzing soft like it was nervous too. She was shaking, but that Oakland fire in her voice was real. I could see the fear in her eyes, but fear don’t cancel attitude—not out here. Not with a woman like her.
“You think runnin’ gon’ change somethin’?” I muttered.
She glared, tears building. “It might save my damn life.”
For a moment, I didn’t say a thing. Just watched her breathe like the walls were closing in. The room smelled like candle wax, sweat, and that leftover tension you can’t wipe clean. I stepped forward, slow. “Grab your hoodie. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
She froze, searching my face like she didn’t trust me anymore. “Safe? You think there’s such a thing as safe with you?”
“That’s all I got for you right now,” I muttered. My tone cut sharper than I meant. “Let’s go, Neesh.”
We moved through the apartment quiet, my Glock in one hand, duffel in the other. The hall was dark except for the flashing red-blue glow from a cruiser parked two blocks down. The siren was off, but its lights painted the wet pavement like some cheap crime scene movie. The air inside felt heavy, thick with plaster dust, burnt gunpowder, and fear you could almost taste. Even the floor creaked soft like it knew we were trying to leave without being noticed.
We stepped outside, the cold mist kissing our faces. Tarnesha hugged herself, duffel clutched tight. I kept her tucked close to my side, eyes sweeping every shadow. The air smelled like rain and radiator steam, the block humming low with paranoia. Curtains twitched as we passed—nosy neighbors pretending they ain’t see nothing. Typical Crest.
My R1 sat under the flickering streetlight, rear tire sagging flat, bullet holes chewed through the side fairing. My gut tightened. “We ain’t ridin’ that,” I muttered, scanning the street. “C’mon.”
We headed to the Impala parked two houses down, old-school Chevy I kept for nights like this. I opened her door, watched her slide in, her lip trembling as she pulled her hoodie strings tight. I slammed the door soft, slid behind the wheel, and fired up the engine. The V8 purred low, a familiar growl that always calmed me. Not tonight.
I pulled off slow, headlights off until we hit Central. The Crest was too quiet for a block that just got lit up. That’s what scared me most. Quiet meant plotting.
Tarnesha finally spoke, voice small. “You gon’ tell me who did that?”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. “Don’t matter who did it,” I said flatly. “Matters who paid ‘em.”
Her eyes flicked toward me. “So… somebody out here really tryin’ to kill you, huh?”
