The Block Raiders

Chapter 2: The Squad

The corner store on 73rd and MacArthur was the heart of the block, a neon-lit beacon where kids copped snacks, OGs swapped stories, and the icee machine hadn’t worked since Jaden was in diapers. It was noon, and the August sun was still out here flexing, turning the asphalt into a skillet. Jaden Carter, still reeling from the eviction notice on his mom’s duplex, leaned against the store’s graffitied wall, his AirPods looping Kendrick Lamar’s Block Gospel. The bass was a lifeline, keeping his mind off the bolded FINAL WARNING burned into his brain.

Meech rolled up on his beat-up BMX, the frame rattling like it was one pothole away from retirement. His Warriors jersey—Curry’s number 30, faded to a ghost of gold—flapped as he hopped off, tossing a half-eaten bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos into the air like it was a basketball. “J-Rock, you ready to make history or what?” he said, catching the bag with a grin.

Jaden pulled out an AirPod, squinting. “History? Man, you said the same thing when you tried to sell me that ‘vintage’ iPhone with no charger. What’s good?”

Meech laughed, loud enough to turn heads from the old heads playing dominos across the street. “This ain’t no scam, fam. I’m talkin’ ‘bout that warehouse stash. Millions, bruh. Enough to get your mom out the red, get me a PS6, maybe even a Cybertruck to flex on X.”

Jaden shook his head, but the eviction notice in his pocket felt like a brick. Meech’s schemes were always wild—last month, he’d sworn he could flip a stolen vape pen into a sneaker empire—but this one hit different. The idea of a cartel stash, hidden since the ‘80s, was crazy enough to sound possible. Or maybe Jaden was just desperate enough to believe it. “Aight,” he said. “But we need the squad. Ain’t no way we hittin’ no haunted warehouse without backup.”

Meech’s eyes lit up like he’d just hit a lick. “Bet. I already hit ‘em up. They comin’.”

By 12:30, the crew was posted under the store’s awning, where a faded Pepsi sign buzzed like a dying fly. Miss Rosa, the cashier, was inside counting change, her hoop earrings glinting through the window. She’d been running the store since Jaden’s mom was a kid, and she had a sixth sense for trouble. “Y’all better not be plannin’ no foolishness,” she called through the open door, her Dominican accent sharp as a switchblade. “I ain’t bailin’ nobody out.”

“We good, Miss Rosa,” Jaden called back, tossing her a smile. She shook her head but slid a bag of free Cheetos across the counter. Meech snatched it like it was gold, adding it to what Jaden had started calling his “Chunk vault” in his head—a Goonies nod nobody else would get.

The squad was tight, each member a cog in their machine, built from years of dodging trouble and chasing dreams on the block:

Talia “Tee” Washington, seventeen, was the brains, a coding prodigy who’d hacked her middle school’s grading system just to flex. Her t****k was blowing up with tutorials—how to bypass paywalls, how to ghost your location on X—but she kept her street smarts sharper than her algorithms. She rolled up in a thrifted Carhartt jacket, her high bun wrapped in a silk scarf, nails painted with binary code patterns that glowed under the sun. She was scrolling her phone, probably debugging an app she’d coded in her sleep.

They sprawled on the sidewalk, passing around Miss Rosa’s Cheetos and sipping knockoff Monster drinks that tasted like battery acid. Meech, perched on his bike, laid out the plan like he was pitching a Netflix special. “Aight, y’all, here’s the deal. That warehouse by the docks? It’s got a stash from the ‘80s, cartel money, hidden by some dude named El Cuervo. My cousin’s homie’s uncle—”

Talia cut him off, not looking up from her phone. “Your cousin’s homie’s uncle? Meech, that’s like sayin’ you heard it from a t****k algorithm. You got proof, or we wastin’ daylight?”

Meech grinned, undeterred. “Tee, you always hatin’. I ain’t got receipts, but I got vibes. Word on the block is, El Cuervo was movin’ weight back when Oakland was wilder than a Drake diss track. Feds got him, but not before he hid his paper. We find it, we set—J’s mom keeps the duplex, you get that MIT bag, I get my PS6, and we all eatin’.”

Talia rolled her eyes, her fingers still flying over her screen. “Sounds like a setup. Or a ghost story. You sure this ain’t just some urban legend, like that haunted BART station?”

Jaden leaned forward, the eviction notice burning a hole in his pocket. “It’s worth a look, Tee. We ain’t got much else. My mom’s killin’ herself at the hospital, and we still drownin’. If there’s even a chance…”

Talia sighed, pocketing her phone. “Fine. But if we end up in a shootout, I’m blamin’ Meech.”

Sofia smirked, sketching a quick phoenix on her pad. “I’m in. But if we die, I’m hauntin’ y’all. My ghost gon’ tag every wall in Oakland.” She paused, glancing at Jaden. “What’s the play, J-Rock?”

Jaden felt the weight of their eyes, like he was suddenly the leader of this ragtag crew. He thought of The Goonies, how Mikey rallied his squad for one last shot at saving their homes. “We hit the warehouse tonight,” he said. “Scope it out, see if Meech’s story holds up. We move quiet, no flexin’ on X, no tellin’ nobody. We call it Operation Truffle Shuffle.”

Meech snorted. “Truffle what?”

“Just roll with it,” Jaden said, grinning. Nobody caught the Goonies reference, but it made him feel like they could pull this off—like kids could outsmart the world.

Darius, silent until now, nodded, pulling a crowbar from his backpack. It gleamed like a promise. “I got tools. Let’s move.”

“Bet,” Meech said, tossing the empty Cheetos bag into a trash can like he was Steph Curry.

“Tonight, we are raiders of the block.”

Jaden’s phone buzzed—an X notification from his mom’s account, a repost of a community fundraiser for a kid shot last week. “Keep the faith, Oakland.” He swallowed hard, the stakes settling in. This wasn’t just about money. It was about survival.

“Truffle Shuffle,” he muttered, sealing the pact.