Chapter Three
1032 Words
The night air in Brookdale carried a heaviness, the type that made you check over your shoulder even when you thought you were safe. Jamal sat on the front steps of his auntie’s brownstone, hoodie pulled low over his eyes, staring out at the streetlights flickering like broken signals.
Everything since Rico’s setup had been sitting heavy on his chest. His name was in people’s mouths again—whispers in the barbershops, on the corners, at the dice games. Some said he was slipping. Some said he got played. And Jamal hated one thing more than betrayal—looking weak.
“Yo, you good?”
The voice pulled him out of his thoughts. It was Taye, his right-hand man since middle school, walking up with a limp still fresh from that scrape they had with some West End dudes last month. Taye dropped onto the step beside him, pulling out a Black & Mild.
“You been quiet since everything went down,” Taye said, lighting up. “Word’s spreading fast, bruh. Rico moving bold like he king of the block now. And cats watching how you respond.”
Jamal clenched his jaw. “I know. That’s the problem. If I move too quick, it look desperate. Too slow, and people think I’m scared. Ain’t no win unless I make it loud.”
Taye exhaled smoke into the night. “Then make it loud. You built half this side of Brookdale. Folks still loyal. Rico got money, yeah, but he ain’t got respect. And that don’t last long out here.”
Jamal nodded, but his stomach twisted. Respect meant everything, but it didn’t stop bullets.
Just then, a silver Dodge Charger rolled slow down the block. Both men went silent, hands ready. The tinted windows slid down a little, enough for Jamal to see a grin flash from inside. Rico’s boy—Tone—gave a mocking salute before the car sped off.
Taye cursed under his breath. “Man, these dudes getting reckless. They playing in your face now.”
Jamal stood up, heart pounding. “Then it’s time I remind everybody who I am.”
---
The next day, Jamal made moves. He spent the morning checking his spots—two bodegas, a car wash, and the backroom of a barber shop that doubled as a stash house. Money still flowed, but the energy was off. People were nervous, asking fewer questions, giving shorter answers. Fear traveled fast in Brookdale.
At the barbershop, old man Darnell pulled Jamal aside. His voice was low, eyes darting to the door.
“Son, I been hearing things. Rico talking about expanding past Eastline. Says he gonna put your name to bed for good. Don’t let this get outta hand.”
Jamal frowned. “Outta hand? It’s already outta hand. He set me up, Darnell. I almost caught a charge I ain’t even earn. That ain’t something you let slide.”
Darnell sighed, rubbing his graying beard. “I done seen too many young kings die trying to prove a point. Power without patience is suicide.”
Jamal respected Darnell, but patience wasn’t an option anymore.
---
By nightfall, Jamal gathered the crew at an abandoned rec center they used for meetings. The air smelled of dust and old sweat, the basketball court stripped of hoops. Around him sat Taye, Keisha, Dre, and Little Man—his circle since day one.
“Here’s how it’s gonna go,” Jamal started, voice steady. “Rico think he got the upper hand. We flip it tonight. I want his spot on Eastline hit. Clean, no sloppiness. Send a message.”
Keisha raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Rico don’t play. He got hitters hungry for stripes.”
“Then let’s feed ‘em,” Jamal shot back. “We hit first, they’ll think twice before running up again.”
The crew nodded, though unease flickered in their eyes. Everybody wanted to stand tall, but war meant coffins.
---
Two hours later, Jamal was crouched in the shadows outside Rico’s Eastline trap house. Heart beating steady, palms gripping the cold steel of his Glock. Taye was beside him, whispering the layout.
“Two on the porch, one by the side alley. Probably more inside. We move quick, we got it.”
Jamal gave the signal.
The night erupted.
Gunshots cracked through the still air, shattering windows and sending Rico’s boys scrambling. Jamal moved with precision, ducking low, returning fire. His crew handled business, but Rico’s side wasn’t soft—they clapped back hard.
In the chaos, Jamal caught a glimpse of Tone—the same dude from the Charger—lifting his piece from the porch. Jamal squeezed first. Tone dropped, clutching his chest, the grin wiped clean off his face.
When the smoke cleared, Eastline was in shambles. Sirens wailed in the distance. Jamal and his crew scattered, disappearing into the maze of alleys.
But Jamal didn’t feel victorious.
He felt something worse—like the war had only just started.
---
The next morning, Brookdale buzzed with rumors. Word spread that Jamal’s crew lit up Rico’s spot and left one of his top boys laid out. Some called it bold. Some called it reckless. But everyone agreed—there was no turning back.
Jamal sat in his auntie’s kitchen, staring at the untouched plate of eggs in front of him. His auntie shuffled in, shaking her head.
“Boy, I know you out here making noise again. You think I don’t hear? Every knock at this door make my heart jump. This life gon’ kill you, Jamal.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew she might be right.
Taye burst in, breaking the silence. His shirt still smelled like gunpowder.
“Bruh, Rico pissed. He calling meetings, promising payback. Streets saying he already put money on your head.”
Jamal pushed the plate away, eyes narrowing.
“Good. Let him come. I ain’t hiding.”
But even as he said it, a part of him felt the weight of what was coming. The war for
Brookdale had just been declared.
And there was no guarantee he’d make it out alive.
- Writer
