Page 53 of The Street Disciples
I pushed open the door, mist rushing in, cool and heavy. The Impala waited at the curb like a loyal dog; windows still fogged from the ride over. I adjusted my jacket, scanned the street for movement, and slid behind the wheel.
The engine purred to life, deep and low. I pulled off slow, the Crest lights reflecting off the wet asphalt, and for a moment, I let my hand rest on the chain at my chest.
The Impala hummed low under me, a predator crawling through streets that felt like they were holding their breath. Lyon Crest wasn’t quiet—it was plotting. Every alley I passed looked like it had teeth, every streetlight blinked slow like an eye watching me. My hand rested heavy on the wheel, my other on the piece in my lap. I wasn’t nervous. I was ready.
Trigger’s fingerprints were everywhere. The block party wasn’t no celebration; it was a stage. And I wasn’t pulling up as no guest. I was coming to read the room, clock every snake that thought I forgot how to smell venom.
The closer I got to the clubhouse, the more the past started creeping in like smoke through cracks. I drove by slow, window cracked just enough to smell it. Gasoline. Whiskey. Grease from late-night bike repairs. The laughter and music that used to spill out of there—it was gone. Now it was a tomb with chrome skeletons parked outside.
I gripped the wheel tighter. This used to be home. The memories hit before I could shove ‘em down. I kept my eyes scanning, heart beating slow but heavy, mind bouncing between the wet streets ahead and the ghosts behind me. And then… the night came back.
Rain came down sideways that night, cold enough to bite through my leather. I was nineteen, green but hungry, running with Dre, who thought he was bulletproof because Sal had blessed him. We had a drop at the tracks, simple work—or that’s what I thought.
“Yo, Ro, you strapped?” Dre asked, revving his CBR, his grin flashing gold teeth in the streetlight.
“Always,” I muttered, patting the piece under my jacket. “Stop askin’ dumb shit.”
We cut down the back road, engines low, streetlights flickering like they couldn’t keep up with the rain. The air smelled like rust and wet asphalt, that pre-storm tension that makes dogs bark and drunks sober up. When we hit the tracks, I saw it.
Something in the shadows. A glint. A reflection that didn’t belong.
“Yo, Dre!” I yelled over the rain, slowing up.
He turned his head, confused. “What?”
That’s when the first shot cracked.
The bullet sparked off the guardrail, and everything went loud. Gunfire lit up the dark like fireworks gone wrong. Dre’s bike skidded sideways as he took a round to the shoulder, his body jerking.
“Move!” I screamed, dumping the clutch, tires screaming as I swerved behind a rusted freight car. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
Dre staggered, blood slicking his jacket. “They—They flanked us!”
“No shit!” I barked, shoving him behind cover. “Stay low!”
I peeked out, saw three silhouettes creeping up, muzzles flashing. My hands shook, but training from Sal kicked in. I squeezed off two shots, one hitting center mass. The man folded, screaming as he hit the wet gravel.
“Go, Ro!” Dre shouted, coughing up blood. “Get the bag!”
I hesitated. He was bleeding out, but his eyes were hard. Sal had drilled that look into us: Handle the mission or don’t come home.
I ducked low, sprinted toward Dre’s bike. Bullets zipped past my head, sparks flying off the rails. My boots slipped in the mud, my breath ragged, lungs burning. I grabbed the duffel and swung around just as another figure rushed me.
“Motherf—!” I snarled, pulling the trigger. The man crumpled before he could finish his thought.
“Go!” Dre roared, voice breaking. He was slumped, hand clutching his wound.
I wanted to grab him, drag him, anything. But another volley of shots rained down, and instinct won over loyalty. I hit the ditch, sliding down into mud and trash, clutching the bag like a lifeline. My knees slammed against rocks, water soaking me through. I crawled until my arms burned, ears ringing from gunfire.
When I finally pulled myself out near the bridge, my bike was gone. I was drenched, shivering, and shaking so bad my teeth rattled.
The wipers squeaked against the windshield, dragging me back to now. My breath fogged the glass, and I realized my jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. The streets blurred past, but I still saw Dre’s blood. I still heard his last words.
I remember the walk home more than anything.
Every step echoed. My boots left muddy prints up the porch. Nova was sitting there, belly round, eyes wide with fear when she saw me.
“Roman…” she whispered, standing slow, her hands instinctively on her stomach.
