Page 22

“He wasn’t even our recruit,” I say, dumbfounded at the whole thing and trying not to look at all the blood pooled on the floor. I thought the guy was sleazy—an ass—but there are worse people who deserve to end up like this.
“It doesn’t matter,” Brawler says. “Everything the Crew touches dies.”
9
In the back of the car on our return trip to the tower, Brawler traces lines over my thigh absentmindedly. Goosebumps spread over my exposed skin, settling in the base of my spine. It’s been so easy to come back to the Heights and fall into everything again. Everything feels so natural.
And no, I’m not talking about the dead body. I’m talking about working with the people I care about.
Magnum’s been quiet since the warehouse. As natural as it is for him to be self-reflective and listen rather than talk, he’s doing it for a whole other reason right now. His cousin showing up threw him for a loop. “You have a lot of history with him, huh?” I ask.
Mag blinks, looking into the rearview mirror. He nods. “That’s an understatement. We came into the Crew at the same time.” He runs a hand over the side of his scruff. “I didn’t think I’d see him again.”
“K?” Brawler guesses.
Mag turns left down a side street, grabbing the steering wheel from underneath. “K wasn’t at the top then. It was Mayhem.”
Now that’s a name I haven’t heard yet. “And Mayhem was where Big Daddy K is now?”
“Top dog,” Magnum says, his words coming out on a breath. “But it doesn’t matter who gave the orders. Anyone who defects is shot on sight.”
“That’s…a little harsh.” I entwine my fingers with Brawler’s. One day, we’re going to defect. All of us. We’ll have to make sure they never find us. “I don’t know why they won’t let people get out if they want to.”
“People know too much. They can be used against us—them,” he says, correcting himself with a shake of his head. “Not many would go away quietly. Not many wouldn’t break under pressure from a rival gang and release as many secrets as they know. That’s why when you’re in, you’re in.”
“You make it sound like we won’t ever have a chance.”
Mag meets my gaze in the mirror again, but he doesn’t say anything to alleviate my worries. My stomach twists.
Brawler hugs me to him. “Don’t lose hope.”
“Hope is one thing I’ve never lost,” Mag says. He returns his gaze to the road then leans forward. “Shit. We’ve got a problem.” He pulls over.
My heart rockets up my throat, lodging there until Mag has the car safely parked. Brawler and I follow his line of sight. “Shit.”
Mag throws the car door open, and I scramble out of the car on the street side, leaving my door open. Magnum’s long strides eat up the cracked road so fast I have to jog to keep up with him, but eventually, we flank Oscar who’s getting shit from some guy.
The thug pulls back, eyeing the sudden entourage Oscar has. For Oscar’s part, he doesn’t look perturbed at all. He’s still wearing that shit-eating grin like nothing in the world bothers him. I know that’s not true now, but it’s the image he likes to display for the world.
“Is it true?” Blue bandana wearing a-hole asks. “My boy dead?” He doesn’t wait for an answer like he’s only interested in hearing himself talk. “We’re supposed to be kept safe. Chill and shit. Now word is we got a retaliation killin’. My boy,” he adds, pumping his fist against his chest.
“Calm down, T,” Oscar says, bored. He kicks off the telephone pole he’d been leaning against when the guy got in his face and approaches him. “You know what it’s like in the Crew. No one ever sugarcoated it for you. Your boy is dead. Taken out by people with no regard for human life. That’s why we need to be in the Heights, and all the other pieces of shit competitors stay where they are. You feel me?”
“But Farmingham, man? It ain’t right.”
“It’s not, but bitching about it won’t do us any good either. We stopped recruiting him. He shouldn’t have been on their radar, but those pieces of shit didn’t give a damn about that.”
Whoever this T is grinds his jaw. He doesn’t go to our school, not that I’ve noticed, anyway. He looks older. Mag’s age or even older than that. He’s got a tattoo of a tear coming off the edge of his eye.
I see why. He’s a whiny bitch.
“Now,” Oscar says. “You good?”
The guy’s jaw ticks, but he’s done complaining. He nods, hiking his pants up his hips.
“Good.” Oscar’s fist flies through the air, clocking the guy in the jaw. The guy stumbles until his back hits the side of the building. The guy’s eyes round as Oscar stalks after him, suddenly taller and getting in this guy’s face as a red mark brightens his skin. “Don’t ever get in my face again, T.” He takes the collar of his shirt and throws him back. T’s head hits the brick wall behind him. Fury ignites in T’s eyes, but he stays where he is, gaze darting to the rest of us surrounding our friend. Oscar runs his hand over his face. “Your fucking drunk spittle hit my cheek.”
Oscar steps back, and the guy takes it as his cue to leave. He does so in a hurry, holding his jeans up as he goes, otherwise he’d be showing us his ass crack.