Concrete Shadows

Chapter Six

The bass from Velour’s speakers rattled the floor, but Jamal barely heard it over the pounding of his own heartbeat. Guns circled him from every angle—chrome flashing in the club’s red lights. Keisha tightened her grip on her pistol, eyes darting. Taye leaned against the wall, bleeding through his shirt but standing tall, refusing to look afraid.

Rico stepped into the firelight, smooth as silk, his grin wider than the night.

“See, this the problem with you, Jamal,” Rico said, his voice carrying over the music like it owned the room. “You always think with your pride. You don’t plan, you don’t calculate—you just swing. That’s why I’ll always be two moves ahead.”

Jamal kept his Glock raised, his arm steady even though every nerve in his body screamed. “You talk too much, Rico.”

Rico laughed, low and mocking. “Maybe. But I can afford to. You? You running outta time.”

The circle of guns tightened. Sweat ran down Jamal’s temple. He knew one wrong twitch could turn this club into his grave.

Then, suddenly, the fire alarms blared louder. Smoke curled from the counting room where the money burned. Panic rippled through the crowd of dancers spilling into the hallway—screaming, pushing past armed guards. The chaos cracked the circle open for a split second.

“Now!” Jamal barked.

He fired first, dropping the soldier to his left. Keisha spun, shooting another in the chest. Taye, bleeding but furious, slammed his shoulder into a third, sending him sprawling.

The room exploded into chaos—bullets flying, bottles shattering, neon lights strobing through the smoke.

Jamal ducked behind a couch, firing back at the wave of Rico’s men. He caught sight of Rico through the haze—calm, untouched, slipping toward the back exit with that same cold smile.

“Coward!” Jamal roared, unloading a shot. The bullet missed by inches, slamming into the wall as Rico vanished through the smoke.

---

The escape was a blur. Jamal’s crew fought tooth and nail, dodging bullets, weaving through panicked crowds. By the time they burst into the alley, sirens wailed in the distance again. Cops were coming.

They sprinted through the rain-slick streets, lungs burning, until they ducked into a boarded-up storefront three blocks away. The adrenaline crash hit all at once.

Taye collapsed against the wall, pressing his bloody arm. “We keep letting him play us, J. We ain’t gon’ survive the next one.”

Keisha, still trembling, snapped back. “Then what you suggest? Roll over and let him take everything?”

“Better than walking into every trap he lay,” Taye shot. “He baited us twice, Keisha! Twice!”

Jamal slammed his fist against the wall, silencing them both. His voice was low, ragged with fury.

“He ain’t smarter than me. He just louder right now. But I swear on everything—I’m gonna flip this on him. Ain’t no way Rico walkin’ away king of Brookdale.”

---

The next day, Jamal called a sit-down with what was left of his network. Half showed. The other half sent excuses—or nothing at all. Loyalty was slipping like water through his hands.

Old man Darnell sat in the corner, arms folded, watching Jamal try to rally the room.

“Rico ain’t untouchable,” Jamal told them, pacing. “He flashy, yeah, but he sloppy. He using fear to hold y’all. But fear fade. Respect last. Y’all know I built this side from the ground up. Don’t let that snake rewrite history.”

Murmurs ran through the room. Some nodded. Some didn’t meet his eyes.

Darnell finally spoke, his voice gravelly. “Son, you trying to fight fire with gasoline. This ain’t about who tougher anymore. This about who smarter. You gon’ burn this city down if you keep swinging blind.”

Jamal clenched his jaw but didn’t answer. Because part of him knew Darnell was right.

---

That night, Jamal sat alone in his auntie’s kitchen. The house was quiet, gospel music barely humming from the radio. His auntie moved slow, carrying a tray of tea to the table.

“You keep coming home with blood on you, Jamal,” she said softly, sitting across from him. “Every time you walk out that door, I don’t know if I’ll see you again. You think the streets care about you? They don’t. They chew you up and spit you out like they did your daddy.”

Jamal’s chest tightened. He wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. He thought about the bodies piling up, the faces of the ones who’d followed him only to end up in the dirt.

“I can’t back down,” he whispered finally. “If I do, Rico owns everything.”

His auntie’s eyes glistened. “Then maybe the price too high, baby.”

Her words lingered long after she went to bed.

---

Two nights later, Jamal’s phone buzzed with a message from a number he didn’t recognize.

*Meet me on 12th. Midnight. Alone. Got info on Rico.*

It smelled like a setup. But Jamal’s gut told him he couldn’t ignore it. He slipped his Glock into his waistband and headed out.

The block was quiet when he arrived. Streetlights flickered over cracked pavement. A figure leaned against a lamppost—hood pulled low, cigarette glowing in the dark.

“You Jamal?” the figure asked.

“Who’s asking?”

The man stepped forward, revealing a scar running across his cheek. “Name’s Bishop. Used to run with Rico. Not anymore.”

Jamal narrowed his eyes. “Why you reaching out to me then?”

Bishop flicked his cigarette, voice low. “Because Rico ain’t who y’all think he is. He got people backing him—bigger than Brookdale. Out-of-town muscle, politicians on payroll, even cops in his pocket. That’s how he walking clean every time. He ain’t just playing you, Jamal. He playing the whole city.”

Jamal’s stomach dropped. He’d suspected Rico had connections, but hearing it confirmed hit different.

“So what you want from me?” Jamal asked.

Bishop smirked. “Simple. You want Rico? You gotta cut his leash. I know where he meeting his buyers next week. Real private. You hit that, you don’t just hurt him—you expose him.”

Before Jamal could respond, tires screeched at the end of the block. Headlights flared, and black SUVs came barreling down the street.

Bishop’s face hardened. “They followed me.”

Gunfire erupted, shattering the night.

Jamal dove behind a dumpster as bullets sparked against metal. Bishop returned fire, dropping one shooter before a round tore into his chest, sending him sprawling.

“Go!” Bishop coughed, blood soaking his hoodie. He shoved a crumpled slip of paper into Jamal’s hand. “Address… don’t waste it…”

Jamal hesitated, heart pounding, but another barrage of gunfire forced his choice. He sprinted through the alley, clutching the paper as Bishop’s body went still in the street.

---

Back at the safe house, Jamal unfolded the bloodstained note. A time, a date, an address. Rico’s next move laid out in ink.

Keisha leaned over his shoulder, eyes wide. “This real?”

Jamal’s jaw tightened. “It better be. Or we all dead.”

Taye shook his head. “J, this looking bigger than a street beef now. If he got cops and politicians in his pocket, we ain’t just fighting Rico. We fighting the system.”

Jamal looked up, fire in his eyes.

“Then we burn the whole system down.”

But as the words left his mouth, a shadow passed outside the boarded window. A voice drifted through the silence—mocking, familiar.

“You can try, Jamal. But you already lost.”

The crew froze.

Rico’s voice. Right outside their hideout.

Cliffhanger:

Rico has tracked Jama

l to his hideout, proving he’s always one step ahead. The crew is cornered again, and the war has reached a deadly turning point.