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One blows away the knife set.
The other goes in and out through the old man’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” he yells out, staggering back while holding his arm. The sleeve of his light blue, unkempt dress shirt is quickly becoming saturated. Rivulets have become one large spot as blood runs down to his fingertips and pools on the floor below.
His wide eyes are on mine while I just raise a brow. “Be grateful this one missed my target.”
“Oh my God!” the woman screeches, her tone grating on my eardrums and I am tempted to shoot her.
“Silence her.” Alton doesn’t move and I fire another shot, this one right by his head. This time they both flinch; an inch or two to the left and his earlobe would’ve been taken clean off. Or worse. Either would work for me. “That is my last warning.”
“Brittany, go upstairs and lock—”
“Wrong. She doesn’t leave.” Bringing my other hand to my face, I scratch my jaw. I’m tired and in need of a shave, but that will all have to wait. There’s a small field trip we will all be taking this morning before I can enjoy the rest of my day.
“I have nothing to do with this,” she whimpers a second before Alton smacks his hand across her mouth, silencing her. He leaves it there for good measure while pulling her by the waist closer to his body. Tears run down her cheeks, leaving tracks of her mascara and liner in their wake, and I don’t feel sorry for her. Not one bit.
Brittany looks pathetic and weak, just like Alton wants her to be. A whore for his pleasure, while London evades his every move. She’s aware but doesn’t have a lick of remorse. She’s here for the money.
The lifestyle.
“Oh, but you do.” With that, I stand and head to the door. Opening it, I stop at the threshold and look back over my shoulder at the three idiots. “You have thirty minutes to clean this shit up. All of it. If you are late a single minute, I will let one of my men collect a finger for each consecutive sixty-second period. Understood?”
“Malcolm, what—” At my glare, Alton swallows hard and nods, his eyes shifting between his injured father and me. “I apologize, Mr. Asher, but I have to ask…what’s going on? Why are you here?”
“The clock is ticking. Hurry up, and you’ll receive answers.”
Twenty-nine minutes later, we’re on our way across town toward the Washington Park area. The guests inside my car are semi-silent as I drive with Javier as my passenger; the Fosters are looking out the window while the woman cries, muffling her low whimpers with a hand over her mouth.
Not a word since Carmelo, my guy watching the back door, gave me the all good. The room was clean, and they were ready to leave.
Now, though, as I take the scenic route toward the self-storage units they use for business purposes, I find myself tensing. Full of this adrenaline—a demand from my body for retribution. There’s this thirst for blood that I can only fight for so long as my muscles strain against my rigid composure.
The more I think about everything they’ve done, the angrier I become. The more my pulse rises, I feel a red haze fall over my senses. Every cell in my body thrums, and I flex my hands on the steering wheel as I park in the empty lot.
No one’s here except for the owner, a man who for a few bucks sold me the three units full of merchandise: coke and electronics.
“Get out,” I say and step out myself. The early morning sun feels good on my face, but you can already feel a small chill in the air. Autumn is slowly creeping in, and with it, the change in seasons can be drastic. From one spectrum to the other.
Without looking back, I walk toward the unlocked front door and open it. There’s no one inside as per my request, and the office door is wide open so I can shut down their security feed myself. Not that I completely trust them, but I accept the gesture with as much good faith as I can muster.
Javier walks in behind me and takes charge of their system, turning the power off and also using a signal scrambler for added protection. What happens here will stay between those in attendance.
Leaving him at the front, I make my way toward the storage units with my men and the Fosters in tow. Theirs are in the row second to the back and on the left; the sole occupants of that space. Secluded and with minimal foot traffic.
However, more importantly, what greets me makes me smile.
Each one is open, and the merchandise inside being accounted for by other members of my staff. The heads of my auditing department have things in crates with the quantity, product name, and the street value already on a neatly written note.
“You can’t do this,” Alton thunders, his hands clenching at his sides while his girl and father just look. Mouths open and eyes wide, they watch as their investment—the buy-in being part of my girl’s monthly stipend—is being confiscated, and the three million they were counting on making disappears. Her brother’s face turns red and his chest heaves with anger. “My business has nothing to do with yours, Asher. I don’t owe you anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“What the fuck—” Every man on my payroll pulls out a gun and points it at their heads, silencing his rant before it begins. He pales and shrinks bank, bumping into an annoyed Carmelo who shoves him off.
“Can I shoot him, boss?”
“Careful, Alton,” I hiss, ignoring his request for now and take a step closer, and then another. I don’t stop until I’m right in his face, hand snapping out to wrap around his neck. Similar to how he held London. “You’re treading on thin ice as is.”
