The King I Can't Arrest

Chapter 4

Onyx

Desrianna Banks watches me like she's trying to peel my skull open and read what's inside.

Ain't gonna happen.

That vault's been sealed for years, and nobody's getting the combination.

I've seen too much.

Done too much.

Shit that'd put me right in a cell next to Quayvon.

And she'd be the first one ready to slap the cuffs on me.

Wouldn't matter what I did.

In her eyes, I'm already guilty by association.

I slide off the stool once Ms. Officer's done with me—or more like once I'm done with her—letting her walk away first.

Her boots echo across the club floor as she heads over to get Amilio's statement next.

She's still got that same fire in her eyes from the moment she recognized me.

Lookin' at me like she thinks I pulled the trigger.

Like I'd kill my own homeboy.

Maybe she really believes that.

Can't say I blame her if she did.

Across the room, Javon's body is being rolled onto a stretcher.

Jason's voice cracks somewhere behind me.

The man's still crying.

Can't blame him either.

Javon was family.

Jace's blood.

Can't even imagine what he's feeling right now.

I lost my brother too, but that came from a dumb-ass decision he made tryin' to look harder than he really was.

Javon bled out right in front of us tonight.

I watched the life leave his eyes.

Saw him take his last breath.

Wasn't the first time I've seen death.

But Javon didn't deserve that.

He was a good dude just tryin' to make a name for himself.

An hour ago we were drinking, having a good-ass time, talking about a collab.

We'd been working on it for months.

He was hyped about the idea of being on stage with me one day.

Going on tour together.

Somebody made sure that dream died tonight.

Now his three-year-old daughter's gonna grow up without her father.

That's f****d up.

But we'll make sure she's taken care of.

That's what family does.

My burner vibrates once in my pocket.

Then again.

I don't check it.

Not here.

Instead, my eyes drift back across the room.

Back to Officer Banks.

She's sitting across from Milli now, notebook in hand, brows drawn tight while she listens.

Damn.

She's fine as f**k.

Curves like a bottle, chocolate-brown eyes, full lips, natural hair pulled back in a ponytail.

And that attitude...

Like she ain't scared of nobody.

I like that s**t.

Too bad she's an opp.

Another vibration buzzes against my thigh.

Yeah.

I gotta get the f**k out of here.

Somebody's got information both me and the police want.

The only difference?

I'm gonna deal with it my way.

I push off the bar and start toward the exit.

Nobody stops me.

Cops are too busy taping off the dance floor and taking more statements.

Good.

I had nothing else to say anyway.

And if I did?

I could always hit little Ms. Officer up personally.

My brothers give me a quick nod as I pass.

They already know what's up.

We'll link up later after I handle what needs handling.

The air outside hits different.

Cooler.

Quieter.

But the tension's still there.

Red and blue lights bounce off the cars lining the street.

A small crowd lingers behind the barricade.

Phones out.

Everybody hungry for a story.

Too bad they ain't getting one from me.

Irritation flickers through me at the thought of my name already floating through the press.

Javon didn't make it big yet.

But being tied to me and Nightstone Records?

His music'll probably go viral overnight.

Funny how death does that.

I ignore the cameras and start walking toward the black Lamborghini parked halfway down the block.

The driver's door unlocks with a quiet chirp when I get close.

I slide into the seat and shut the door.

The world outside dulls instantly.

Just the low hum of the engine and distant sirens echoing down the street.

For a moment, I just sit there trying to get my head straight.

Trying to bury what I saw tonight.

I ain't about to cry or nothing. My tears ran out a long time ago.

But losing my homeboy still hits hard.

I can still hear the shots.

Smell the blood and gunpowder.

See the terror in his eyes right before the light faded out of them.

After a second, I reach into my pocket and pull out the burner.

Three missed calls.

One text.

Unknown number.

I already know who it is.

The message is straight to the point.

Got him.

My jaw tightens.

I stare at the screen longer than I should.

Then another message comes through.

Warehouse on Harbor Road.

Yeah.

That tracks.

Perfect place to hide.

Dump a weapon.

Or torch that gray Altima I watched speed away from the back of the club through the bathroom window.

Good thing I made the call before I walked back out there.

I pull away from the curb.

The Lamborghini growls beneath me, smooth and powerful—just the way I like it.

Across the street, a couple people lift their phones when they see the car.

Thankfully, my windows are tinted enough nobody can see who's inside.

I take a deep breath, trying to convince myself everything's normal.

Like my boy ain't just bleed out the floor of a club.

Like I ain't already on my way to find the man who did it.

The police got their way of handling things.

Questions.

Statements.

Investigations that take too damn long.

Trials that take even longer.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

Because whoever pulled that trigger made one mistake.

They missed me.

And that means I'm still here.

Still breathing.

Still driving straight to the last place they're ever gonna see.

Harbor ain't far.

Ten minutes, maybe less.

Long enough for the anger in my chest to settle into something colder.

Something sharper.

Something useful.

I pop the glove compartment with my right hand.

The inside light flickers on, casting a dull glow over the contents inside.

Registration.

Insurance.

And the Glock resting where I left it.

Good.

I shut the compartment and keep my eyes on the road.

Streetlights flash across the windshield as the city starts thinning out around me.

Fewer cars.

More warehouses.

More darkness.

Exactly the kind of place people run when they think nobody's gonna catch their ass.

By the time I turn onto the empty industrial road leading toward the warehouse district, I'm not thinking about grief anymore.

I'm thinking about revenge.