Concrete Shadows

Chapter Five

The sound of sirens blurred into the ringing in Jamal’s ears. He coughed, choking on smoke as he clawed his way out from under a slab of twisted metal. The warehouse was in ruins—flames chewing through walls, shattered glass crunching beneath him as he stumbled to his feet.

Blood streaked his forehead, but he barely felt it. All he could hear was Taye’s voice, faint in the distance.

“Jamal! Over here!”

Jamal staggered toward the sound, vision swimming. He found Taye half-buried under a collapsed beam, clutching his arm where blood poured steady. Keisha knelt beside him, coughing but alive, her face streaked with soot.

“You good?” Jamal rasped, pulling at the beam. His muscles screamed, but adrenaline kept him moving until Taye was free.

“I ain’t dead yet,” Taye muttered through clenched teeth. “But we gotta bounce. Cops gon’ swarm this whole dock any minute.”

Keisha helped him up, eyes darting. “Where’s the money?”

Jamal froze. The duffel bags were gone—burnt, scattered, or taken. His chest tightened. Rico hadn’t just set them up; he’d stripped them clean.

“Forget the cash,” Jamal snapped. “We move now!”

The three of them limped through the wreckage, slipping into the maze of shipping containers just as flashing blue lights lit up the night. By the time the police stormed the warehouse, Jamal and his crew had vanished into the shadows.

---

Hours later, Jamal sat in a dingy backroom of the barbershop, his hands shaking for the first time in years. The smell of burnt clothes clung to him. He stared at the cracked mirror across the room, seeing not a leader, but a man who had just been played on every level.

Rico hadn’t just wanted blood—he wanted humiliation.

Taye winced as Keisha cleaned his wound, biting back curses. “That bastard knew we’d come. He wanted us there. You saw him walk away clean like it was scripted.”

“Yeah,” Jamal muttered, voice low. “He ain’t just a hustler anymore. He thinking like a general.”

Keisha slammed the bloodied rag down. “Then we stop playing defense. He wants war? Let’s burn his whole empire down.”

Jamal looked at her, eyes dark. “And how you suppose we do that when he three steps ahead?”

For once, no one had an answer. The room sat heavy with silence.

---

By morning, the streets of Brookdale were buzzing. Everybody heard about the docks. Some said Jamal barely made it out alive. Others said Rico set the whole thing up like theater, walking away untouched while Jamal looked like a survivor clinging to scraps.

In a game where perception was everything, the whispers cut deeper than bullets.

Jamal walked through the neighborhood, hoodie up, feeling the stares. The kids who used to cheer when he passed now looked nervous. The corner boys nodded, but their eyes slid away too quick.

Respect was slipping. And Jamal knew once it was gone, it was gone for good.

---

That night, he met with his last solid connect—a quiet older man named Malik, who ran guns through the city. They sat in Malik’s back office, maps spread across the table, stacks of ammunition boxes against the walls.

“You slipping, Jamal,” Malik said bluntly, lighting a cigar. “Rico making noise, and you look like you playing catch-up. That ain’t good for business. People like winners. And right now? He winning.”

Jamal leaned forward, jaw tight. “So you switching sides?”

Malik smirked. “I ain’t switching nothing. I sell to whoever pay. But if you want to stand a chance, you need to stop reacting. You need to make him dance to your beat.”

“How?” Jamal asked.

Malik tapped the ash from his cigar. “You cut off his supply. Money, product, protection—don’t matter. You find the weak link, you hit it hard, you keep hitting till he bleed. That’s how kings fall.”

Jamal nodded slowly. Malik was right. Rico had been dictating the game. That had to change.

---

Back at the rec center, Jamal laid it out for the crew.

“Rico got everybody thinking he untouchable. That ends now. Malik says we choke him out at the roots. Rico’s pushing weight heavy through that nightclub on Fulton—Velour. That’s his money fountain. We hit it, we cut deep.”

Keisha smirked, finally seeing a plan with teeth. “I like that. Public, messy. Let everybody know Rico ain’t safe.”

Taye frowned, flexing his bandaged arm. “Public also mean cops. And Rico ain’t gon’ sit pretty while we torch his spot. You sure about this, J?”

Jamal’s stare was ice. “I ain’t sure about nothing anymore. But if we don’t hit first, we already lost.”

---

Velour was a jewel of the city—purple lights glowing against the skyline, music thumping from walls thick with secrets. Rico’s money washed through it every night, wrapped up in liquor sales and VIP rooms.

Jamal stood outside in the alley, mask pulled down, pistol heavy in his grip. Keisha and Taye flanked him, nerves tight but steady.

“Quick in, quick out,” Jamal whispered. “Hit the cash room, light it up, bounce. Make sure everybody knows it was us.”

The back door clicked open with a stolen key, and the three slipped inside. The air smelled of perfume and smoke, bass shaking the walls. They moved fast through the corridors until they reached the office near the back—the counting room.

Stacks of bills covered the table. Two guards barely had time to reach for their weapons before Jamal dropped them with clean shots. Keisha grabbed a gas can, dousing the money.

Taye struck the lighter. Flames roared to life, chewing through the bills as alarms wailed.

But before they could escape, a voice echoed from the doorway.

“Well, well. Déjà vu, huh?”

Jamal’s blood went cold. Rico stood there, alone this time, dressed sharp, a pistol dangling loosely in his hand. The firelight danced across his grin.

“You keep coming where I want you,” Rico drawled. “Like a moth to a flame. Thing is, moths always burn.”

Jamal raised his gun, but Rico didn’t flinch.

“You really think burning my cash hurts me?” Rico sneered. “That’s pocket change. I let you live at the docks ‘cause I wanted to see how far you’d push. And here you are, still playing checkers on my chessboard.”

Keisha hissed under her breath, “Shoot him, Jamal!”

But Jamal hesitated. Not because he was scared—but because something in Rico’s eyes was wrong. Cold. Calculated. Like even this moment was part of his plan.

And then Jamal heard it.

The click of safeties being drawn back—dozens of them.

From the shadows of the club, Rico’s soldiers stepped out, guns raised, surrounding Jamal, Taye, and Keisha in a tightening circle.

Rico chuckled, stepping closer, his pistol still loose at his side.

“Welcome to checkmate.”

Cliffhanger:

Jamal, Tay

e, and Keisha are surrounded inside Velour. Rico has trapped them once again, raising the stakes to a deadly level.