Page 2

CHAPTER 2

EARTH CARLSON

“Let’s make this shit quick,” I said, walking into the house.

My brother Fire slowly made his way inside behind me. I heard him knocking shit over as he made his way through the foyer. Usually, I’d be annoyed, even want to snatch his ass up, but today, I needed his dramatic flair. I was tired; coming off a seven-hour flight to having to come here and handle shit we usually wouldn’t have to was pissing me off. But Prince was missing; he wasn’t answering the phone or at regular hangouts.

“You can't rush perfection,” Fire said.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tried Prince again. Just like the past two days, his phone rang twice then went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message; there was no reason. He never checked them.

“I swear this nigga gonna make me go upside his shit,” I said, then stuffed my phone back in my pocket.

“He probably with a bitch,” Fire said as he looked at a large painting hanging above the fireplace that sat in the middle of the room. “You know how he gets when he finds the new love of his life.”

I sucked my teeth and then grunted. My boy was a hopeless romantic. Every woman he was with somehow became his life's love after a short time. Eventually, they became some bitch he used to fuck with. I didn’t doubt he loved them at one point; he just didn’t know how to stay in love.

“Probably,” I agreed.

“You sure this nigga here?” Fire questioned as he walked away from the fireplace and picked up a vase off the end table near the couch. “This shit ugly.” He dropped the vase on the ground and stepped on the broken pieces before jumping on the couch. “This shit stiff.”

“It’s old people's shit,” I said with a laugh. “These muthafuckas don’t know shit about comfortable furniture. They don’t even care if it's comfortable because they aren’t sitting on it.”

“I guess so,” Fire replied as he stepped off the couch. “Let’s find this nigga so we can collect our money.”

“Cool with me, I’m tired anyway.”

I pulled my gun from the waist of my pants and waited for Fire to do the same. Chancy Moore might be rich, but I knew he was a street nigga at heart and hadn’t forgotten his roots. His camping out at his grandparents' house didn’t mean shit. He knew what time it was, and when we caught him, shit wasn’t going to be easy.

“How much you think this shit gonna get me at the pawnshop off 12 th Street?” Fire picked up an old-school camera on a table near the steps. “Shit, look like it's got some secrets on it.”

“Put that shit back,” I said as I passed him. “We ain’t here for that.”

“So, you sayin’ I can't make no money off killin’ the nigga that owes us money?” he asked, as I made my way up the stairs. “Earth, nigga, I know you hear me!”

“I hear you, fool. Take the shit if it means that much to you,” I shot back, knowing Fire didn’t give a damn about the camera but was just trying to get on my damn nerves.

“I don’t want this old ass shit.” Fire threw the camera down the stairs, then smirked at me. “But that painting in the living room is going with me. I know this girl that likes old shit like that. I’m going to tell her I bought it on the black market to impress her.”

We made our way upstairs and checked each room we found. For the house to be so damn big, there was a lot of unused space.

Chancy had made his name in the streets a few years back, but a few bad business deals had him looking for someone to invest in his business. I’d warned him we wouldn’t play with him when he came to us. On the outside, Elemental Investment was just an investment company; my hands were in almost every type of business. We made money in our sleep. When I stepped into a board room, everyone waiting for me to show up was pleased when I opened my mouth. What most didn’t know was how we moved behind the scenes.

In the streets, we were known as DBB, the Duffel Bag Boys, and we weren’t the ones to fuck with. We made our money early on, jacking every corner boy with no regret. We eventually moved to selling the drugs we jacked. We got money by taking and didn’t care who knew. After a while, we had more money than we knew what to do with, so we invested in some small businesses to have a cover story about why we were making money. That brought in more money, and our parents didn’t raise dummies, so we started going to school: me for business management and Fire for finance. Less than ten years later, we were legit businessmen who were still hood at heart.

“You mess with hoodrats. Them bitches don’t know shit about pictures,” I retorted, and Fire laughed. “Now let’s hurry this shit up so I can go home, take a shower, and go to sleep. Unlike yo’ ass, I’ve been sitting in board meetings, impressing muthafuckas who have no idea I’m their worst fuckin’ fear.”

“Young, educated, and black,” Fire said, and I nodded. “But hood and with all the best connections.”

“Ain’t no other way to be.” I laughed. “Now let’s kill this nigga.”

“So fuckin’ pushy, I swear,” Fire replied and then kicked open the only door that was locked.

I half expected someone to start shooting or at least try to go out like an OG. Instead, Chancy sat in a chair near the window, a blunt in one hand and a glass of liquor in the other. There was no doubt in my mind it was cognac because that was the only thing I'd ever seen him drink.

“Took you lil niggas long enough to get here,” he said with a chuckle, then took a pull of his blunt. “I’ve been waiting all night.”

“It’s only ten-thirty. Shut the fuck up,” Fire responded as he looked around the room. “And you are only six years older than us; stop trying to make it seem like you an OG in the game.” He mugged Chancy hard. “Talkin’ about I been waiting all night. Bitch, you dumb for rushing us to kill you.”

“Nah, I’m not dying,” Chancy smirked. “Not with the information I have.”

“What you know?” Fire questioned. I stood back, watching their interaction. Chancy was cocky as fuck right now. He didn’t look like a nigga worried about dying. If anything, he looked like he would live through this night and plenty more later.

“I know who snatched Prince,” he answered, and I stepped forward. Prince was like a brother to us. We’d grown up together. He was my brother without needing the blood connection. “He hasn’t been answering the phone for you over the last few days, has he?”

“Who got him?” Fire made it across the room in less than six steps and pushed his gun into Chancy’s temple. “Huh, nigga? If you wanna live, you’ll start talkin’.”

“I tell you who has him, and y’all let me live,” Chancy said, looking at me. He knew Fire wouldn’t make a move without my word, or at least he hoped he wouldn’t.

“Put the gun down,” I said to Fire. He looked at me with a confused expression, and I nodded. “Let him talk.”

“It better be some legit information, too,” Fire said, then pushed away from Chancy.

“Jamel snatched him,” Chancy said quickly. I chuckled because this nigga was stupid. He had no guarantee we’d let him live, and yet he’d run his mouth.

“Go on.”

“Two nights ago, he was leaving the club on Eighth Street, and he didn’t make it home,” Chancy said. “Word is, Jamel had his boys snatch him up and drag him to an empty warehouse near the west bottoms. He’s still there.”

Fire stepped back, pulled his phone from his pocket, and was already making calls before I could tell him. I watched him as he paced in front of Chancy and talked on the phone. He looked up at me and nodded, and I knew he had a location. “Citrine and Wednesday said they are going meet us there.”

“Wednesday in a good mood?” I questioned with a chuckle. Wednesday Long was never in a good mood. Nigga stayed pissed, which was always a plus for us because he worked best when he was mad.

“Probably not,” Fire answered with a shrug. “I saw Mondai the other day, and she said he threatened to beat up her new boyfriend, so we actually might catch him without a mug on his face.”

“If he ain’t kill him, then I doubt it,” I off-handedly said, and Fire nodded in agreement. “You killin’ this nigga, or am I?”

“Hey!” Chancy screamed as he jumped up from his seat. Fire shot him in his knees, making him fall to the ground.

“Who killed the last one?” Fire questioned, and I paused to think. The last time we were together, we’d gone for a drink after I got back in town, and a nigga was talkin’ reckless to our sister Breeze. Without thinking, I pulled his gun out and shot him.

“Me, at the bar,” I answered.

“The nigga was talkin’ slick to Breeze,” Fire said, then nodded. “Alright, so I’m going with my signature then.” Fire put two more bullets in him, one in each shoulder. “He can sit there and bleed out. If he’s right with the lord, he’ll die from that before the fire gets him.”

After leaving the room, it took Fire a few minutes to get what he needed. As a kid, he always played with fire. At one point, I swore that nigga was going to burn down the house. All he did was flick his lighter or strike a match. It took our pop threatening to hang him up by his balls after setting the porch on fire before he finally got it together.

“How far is the warehouse from here?” I asked him once we were in the car and pulling out. Even though Chancy’s grandparents' house was in a nice area, it was off the grid. When someone realized it was on fire, it would be too late.

“It smells like ass out here,” Wednesday said as he walked past us and headed toward the warehouse. I knew he wouldn’t be there for any conversation, which I was okay with. “I hate the damn dirt and worms, and trees, and fuckin’ animals.”

“And the rivers, oceans, and lakes,” Fire teased as we walked behind him.

Wednesday stopped walking and turned to face us. “That shit, too,” he said, then grunted. “I hate the whole earth.”

“World. Say you hate the whole world,” Fire corrected. “Saying earth makes it seem like you talkin’ about my brother.”

“I hate that nigga, too, for having me out here,” Wednesday replied, then turned around and headed toward the warehouse door.

I laughed out loud, not giving a fuck if he heard me because I was used to his mean ass always complaining about shit. He didn't want to deal with it if he couldn’t be in his house, in the luxury of central air, heat, and water. Wednesday was OCD and a big-ass germophobe. He ran the streets as a kid to care for himself and his sisters. He never looked back once he hooked up with us and started making money.

“Doubt it,” I replied. I turned to Citrine, who walked beside Fire, and tossed him the bat he’d left in my car. “Your shit stays with you, not me.”

“I been lookin’ for my lady,” he replied as he examined his bat. “You were nice to her, right?”

“Nigga, get a woman,” I replied, then turned back to Wednesday, who mugged us. “Kick shit in or something to deal with your anger.”

“Fuck you,” he said, then kicked in the warehouse door.

The door was cheap and had wood rot, so it broke off the hinges and dropped to the ground. We walked inside, again not caring whether someone heard us or not. The entire warehouse was empty except for one room. Inside, Prince sat tied to a chair with the back of his head blown off.

“Who did this shit?” Wednesday asked, stepping out of the room. He briefly glanced at Prince before shutting the door.

“Jamel,” I answered. Tears dropped from my eyes, and I had no intention of wiping them away. Citrine, Wednesday, and Fire had all seen me at my lowest. Shit, we’d all seen each other at our lowest, so there was no reason to hide behind some macho shit now. Our boy was dead, and we had to mourn him. Jamel would die for this shit.