12. Trigger
Trigger
The Storm
Recommended Song: Deep Cover [Mixed] by Dr. Dre it rippled, restless, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Tino stood front and center, leather cut heavy with patches that told more history than any city plaque ever could. He had that mic in his fist like it owed him rent.
“Y’all hear me?” his voice boomed, gritty, carrying over the hum of lowriders and the smell of mesquite from the grill. He didn’t ask twice. The block got quiet like church on a Sunday after a shooting.
“This Crest ain’t no playground,” Tino barked, chin high, one hand tugging at his vest where the Sgt-at-Arms rocker gleamed under the lights.
“It’s a battleground we bleed for. Y’all out here smilin’, eatin’, drinkin’, but don’t get it twisted—we watchin’ everything.
Ain’t no outsiders runnin’ this block. Ain’t no snitches breathin’ our air.
You step wrong, you get stepped on. Period. ”
Heads nodded sharp. Some faces stiffened.
The message wasn’t a warning; it was a reminder.
The crowd roared approval—claps, whistles, some fool hollerin’ “Talk that shit, Tee!” Tino’s eyes scanned ‘em all, slower this time, his left-hand twitching once at his vest like he was signing to me without words. I caught it, logged it, kept my face blank. Men who survive this long don’t speak unless they have to.
Mouse slid up from the side, hoodie shadowing his face. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, head tilted just enough to look like he was people-watching, not reporting.
“Two o’clock, Raiders jacket,” he growled low, not looking at me. “Piece on his right. Ain’t twitchin’ though.”
I nodded once. “Let him sweat. He’s bait.”
Mouse peeled off without another word, melting into the bodies near the gate.
He kept going, voice thick with authority.
“Tonight’s about family. About showin’ love to this Crest that raised us.
We feedin’ you, protectin’ you, makin’ sure them badges stay on the other side of the gate.
But don’t forget who put this together. Don’t forget who keep this yard safe when y’all sleepin’.
This here is Street Disciples business.”
The applause wasn’t all joy; some of it was compliance.
You learn to tell the difference. I flicked ash and smirked from my corner.
Tino was perfect for this—hard enough to keep ‘em respectful, loyal enough to know the script.
He was the gatekeeper, the wolf at the door.
And me? I was the hand holding the leash.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
JINX: “Gate steady. No shakes yet.”
I replied with a single period. That was all he needed. Silence kept men disciplined.
From where I stood, I clocked everything. Every sidelong glance, every whispered exchange that cut off too quick, every nervous twitch near the gate. The crowd’s body language, the shifts in conversation when Whit and his crew moved through, the tension around the sheriffs at the gate.
Ro was posted near the edge of the stage now, jaw tight, eyes cutting through the crowd like he was memorizing faces.
He wore that cut tonight too—the Street Disciples rocker weathered, colors darker than fresh asphalt, patches stitched with stories most men don’t live to tell. Those cuts alone were history.
And him? He was moving like he remembered it. Not like a man stepping into a trap, but like a man willing to burn one down to get out. That’s dangerous.
Jinx slipped through the shadows from the opposite side of the yard, wiping his hands on a rag like he’d just tuned a bike. He stopped next to me, eyes scanning the crowd like a predator.
“Sheriff’s kid’s nervous,” he muttered, barely moving his lips. “See his left shoulder twitch?”
“Yeah,” I breathed out smoke slow. “That’s a man who came to watch, not act. Let him think he’s invisible.”
“Copy that,” Jinx grunted, fading back into the darkness.
The way he left told me everything was balanced—too balanced. It’s the calm before a gun goes off.
I tapped my burner twice and slipped it back in my pocket. One buzz and this whole yard would shift; I had dogs on chains ready for a nod. The silence I kept was worth more than gold right now.
Tino’s voice cracked over the mic again: “We got folks here tonight who been holdin’ this block down since way back. Y’all gon’ hear from a few of ‘em. This Crest don’t forget its own.”
The crowd rumbled with anticipation, but tension threaded through it. Even the music in the background felt cautious, bass heavy but not loud enough to cover whispers. I scanned faces like I was reading a book nobody else knew how to open.
I could see Ro’s shadow shift behind him. He’d speak soon. Good. The louder he got, the easier it would be to map the snakes in this grass.
And I was already cutting the lawn in my head. Every blade. Every root. The way he left told me everything was balanced—too balanced. It’s the calm before a gun goes off.
And I was already cutting the lawn in my head. Every blade. Every root. Every man who thought he was safe because I let him breathe this long.
Mouse’s voice crackled in my ear over the burner. “They ready for the next one,” he whispered, code flat and short. I flicked ash and nodded, not because he could see me, but because the signal wasn’t for him—it was for the night.
“Bring him up,” I rumbled back.
Whit strode to the edge of the stage, brown leather jacket catching just enough light to remind people who bought it for him. His father’s shadow was stitched into every inch of this block, and tonight, Junior was wearing it like cologne.
He adjusted the mic like he owned it. “Evenin’, Crest,” he started, voice smooth, politician’s son all the way down. “I see a lot of familiar faces tonight. Faces that built this city. Faces that deserve better than the stories they write about us.”
The crowd whispered, some nodding, some stone-faced. Whit flashed that half-smile he’d learned from campaign photos.
“I’m not gonna stand here and talk down to you,” he continued, voice steady, measured.
“We’re not outsiders. We’re family. This block raised me too.
Every crack in these sidewalks got a story, every name on these walls got a soul behind it.
Tonight, ain’t about politics. It’s about showing this Crest is more than headlines.
It’s a community. And we keep each other safe. ”
The sheriffs by the gate stood a little straighter. Cameras panned. Whit made it look clean. He wasn’t speaking to the people here; he was speaking to the city watching through a lens. And they’d eat it up.
I leaned back into the shadow, blunt burning low. This was all smoke and mirrors. Whit was a prop—polished, practiced, perfect for pictures. That’s why I kept him close.
“Respect to Street Disciples for opening their yard tonight,” Whit added, nodding toward Tino. “Y’all are proof that this Crest takes care of its own.”
Applause rolled over the yard, polite, careful. Whit flashed another smile and stepped back. His speech wasn’t fire—it wasn’t supposed to be. It was bait.
I scanned the crowd. The snakes were listening now. They always slither closer when they smell power trying to look pretty.
“Time to let Ro speak,” I muttered to myself, flicking the last bit of ash onto the concrete. The night was shifting; I could feel it in my teeth.
I stepped further into the shadow between two tents, blending into the background noise—laughter, the crackle of grills, the rumble of lowriders circling like sharks. My men didn’t need hand signals anymore. They moved on instinct, like wolves around a wounded deer.
Tino passed the mic with a nod, stepping back just enough to let the crowd focus on Ro.
I slipped my phone out, thumbs tapping two quiet commands—one to Jinx, one to Mouse.
Just like that, a sheriff at the gate shifted his stance, hand brushing his holster, while Mouse started weaving through the back row with a camera on his shoulder.
Ro walked slow, deliberate, leather cut heavy on his shoulders, patches catching the floodlights. Every step he took was dragging history up with him. The crowd got real quiet. You could feel the curiosity—the kind that smells like fear—start to creep in.
“Evening, Crest,” Ro growled into the mic, voice carrying over the lot like a shotgun blast. Heads turned. Some faces lit up at the sight of him; others stiffened. That’s what I wanted. Confusion. Division.
He started talking about loyalty, about the block raising him, about family and legacy. The kind of words that get men nostalgic and reckless. I sent another text. The DJ cut the bass just a hair too low. Now every cough, every whisper carried. Every eye was locked on him. Perfect.
Ro’s voice cracked just enough to sound raw, not rehearsed. He wasn’t playing politician. He was bleeding in front of them, and I wanted him to bleed harder.
I caught Whit in the corner of my vision, leaning into a reporter, whispering like a snake. Cameras shifted subtly. A sheriff radioed something, and another stepped closer to the gate. The crowd stiffened.