Concrete Shadows

Chapter Four

The rain hit Brookdale hard that night, washing the streets in a slick sheen of neon reflections. Jamal stood under the awning of the car wash he owned, hoodie pulled up, cigarette burning between his fingers. The air was cool, but the weight pressing on his chest made him sweat.

Rico wasn’t staying quiet. After the Eastline hit, whispers turned into threats. Two of Jamal’s boys had already gone missing—Dre hadn’t answered his phone since yesterday, and Little Man was last seen leaving a corner store on 5th. Nobody had seen him since.

Jamal dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the wet concrete. His patience was burning out.

“You pacing like you expecting the devil himself,” Taye said, walking up from the lot. His limp was worse in the rain, but he masked it with a smirk.

“Maybe I am,” Jamal muttered. “We ain’t heard from Dre. That ain’t like him. Rico making moves we don’t see yet. I can’t let him play chess while we playing checkers.”

Taye nodded, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Got word from Keisha. One of her people said Rico meeting a connect tomorrow night. Big deal, heavy cash. If we hit that, we don’t just hurt him—we cut his legs from under him.”

Jamal took the paper, scanning the scrawled address. A warehouse by the docks. Neutral ground, but money always meant blood.

“This the break we need,” Taye added. “But it’s high risk. Rico ain’t dumb—he gon’ be guarded heavy.”

Jamal’s eyes hardened. “Good. If we hit him where he feel it most, he won’t see it coming.”

---

Later that night, Jamal stopped by his auntie’s house. The living room smelled of fried chicken, gospel music humming low from the radio. His auntie looked up from her sewing, eyes sharp.

“Jamal.” Her voice cut through the air like a warning. “You walking the same road that took your daddy. Guns, grudges, and graves. Is that how you want to be remembered?”

He sat on the couch, rubbing his face. For a moment, he wasn’t Jamal the hustler, the boss, the feared name in Brookdale. He was just a tired young man trying to carry a kingdom on his shoulders.

“Auntie, I ain’t looking for this war. But Rico ain’t giving me no choice. If I back down, I lose everything.”

She leaned forward, eyes wet. “Baby, sometimes everything ain’t worth your soul.”

Jamal couldn’t answer. The silence said enough.

---

The next evening, the crew met up at the rec center again. Keisha was the first to speak, arms crossed, voice sharp.

“Word is Rico bringing heavy hitters to that dock meeting. Out-of-town muscle. This ain’t no street fight—it’s warzone level.”

Taye grinned. “All the more reason to strike. We get him before the deal locks, we shake his whole empire.”

Keisha glared. “Or we get wiped out trying.”

Jamal raised a hand, silencing them. “We moving smart. No wild shots. We go in, hit the bag, and ghost. If Rico show, even better. But the money—that’s the target.”

The crew exchanged uneasy looks, but loyalty held them in place.

---

The docks smelled of salt and rust, cranes looming like skeletons against the night sky. Jamal crouched behind a stack of shipping crates, eyes locked on the warehouse ahead. Through the cracked door, he could see shadows moving, voices echoing.

Taye whispered, “Four on the outside, maybe more inside. You ready?”

Jamal adjusted the mask over his face, gripping his Glock. “Always.”

The first guard didn’t even see it coming. A muffled pop, and he crumpled without a sound. The crew moved like shadows, slipping through the dark.

Inside, the warehouse buzzed with tension. Stacks of duffel bags sat on a long table, the smell of fresh bills filling the air. Rico wasn’t there yet—but his men were.

Jamal’s heart thudded as they made their move. Keisha snatched the first bag, tossing it to Taye. But just as Jamal reached for the next, a voice rang out.

“Well, well. Look who came shopping.”

Jamal froze.

From the far side of the warehouse, Rico himself stepped out, flanked by six men strapped heavy. His grin was cold, sharp enough to slice.

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Rico said, spreading his arms like he owned the night. “You hit Eastline, you thought I wouldn’t expect this? You still predictable, Jamal.”

Guns raised. The air cracked with tension.

For a second, Jamal considered retreat. But something in him refused. He locked eyes with Rico, steady as a heartbeat.

“You set me up, Rico. You wanted war. Now you got it.”

Rico smirked. “Then let’s finish it.”

The warehouse erupted in chaos.

Gunfire rattled off the walls, sparks flying as bullets tore into metal. Jamal dove behind a crate, returning fire, adrenaline surging. Taye dropped two of Rico’s men before a bullet grazed his arm, spinning him sideways. Keisha shouted, covering his back, her pistol barking in sharp rhythm.

Jamal’s mind raced. The money was inches away, but Rico was standing dead center, daring him to move.

He could hear sirens in the distance—someone had tipped the cops. Time was running out.

Then, in the madness, Jamal’s eyes locked on Rico. For the first time, he saw something flicker in his rival’s face—not arrogance, but calculation. Like Rico wasn’t here just for the deal.

Like he had something else planned.

And that’s when Jamal noticed it.

A red blinking light, strapped under one of the tables stacked with duffel bags.

His stomach dropped.

“Bomb!” Jamal roared, voice cracking above the gunfire.

But it was too late.

The explosion ripped through the warehouse, fire swallowing the night. Jamal was thrown backward, the world spinning into flames and screams.

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Rico walking away through the chaos, untouched, his grin sh

arper than ever.

Cliffhanger:

Jamal survives, but Rico has outplayed him with a devastating trap.