7. Tremaine “Trigger” Marks #3
I pictured the night. Sheriffs at the gate, arms crossed just enough for the news camera to say “community.” Darius’s smirk under some father’s badge.
Saint posted three houses down, umbrella for a prop, eyes for a living.
Tony with his relic camcorder, red light taped over because he thought stealth was craft tape.
Ro in the middle, trying to be a sentence when all he was, is a comma we forgot to need.
Nova won’t be there. She’s smarter than the men who love her.
That’s okay. I’ll make sure she hears it clear on a cheap speaker tomorrow.
My phone buzzed once: UNKNOWN. I don’t answer UNKNOWN unless UNKNOWN knows our shape. It buzzed again and I let it sing to the rain. We ain’t dancing. I’m riding.
Hours blurred into wet asphalt and headlight streaks until exhaustion set its hooks.
The city felt calm but calmed a mask—it was what the streets wore before they bite.
I parked the bike, boots heavy, body running on fumes.
That kind of tired makes you think slower, but plan sharper.
I let the silence settle, knowing morning was only a few hours away.
Morning bleeds in dull. I slept four hours because that was the amount my neck allowed before it started to talk.
Coffee from the machine that lied to me and called itself breakfast. The news did its part—traffic, weather, a shooting in a city they pronounced wrong like it made it smaller. I turned it off and made some calls.
First, the fire inspector who forgot certain things for an envelope full of bills. I leaned back in my chair, the phone warm against my ear, rain tapping the window like it had something to confess. The line crackled.
“Inspection’s next week,” the fire inspector muttered, his voice dry as chalk. “No cash. Cameras on everything now.”
I smirked, slow. “Relax. Wasn’t cash. It’s a donation… for that league you’re so proud of. Kids still quitting by halftime?”
He chuckled nervously. “Quitting’s honest.”
“Exactly,” I said, my tone low. “That’s why I doubled it. Makes you feel generous when you wrote ‘safe’ next to my name, didn’t it?”
He went quiet. Paper shuffled on his end. “Everything’s… clear.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“It’s clear,” he repeated, firmer this time.
“Good,” I murmured. “Keep it that way. You knew I didn’t like surprises.”
“You paid for predictability,” he said, trying to sound calm.
“And you sold it cheap,” I shot back, voice sharp. “Write it so clean it’d make a news crew cry. And if I heard you’d been talkin’—about anything—I’d send somebody to remind you why fire codes mattered.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Same time next quarter?” he asked quietly.
“You’d see me before then,” I told him. Then I hung up first, because I always did.
The screen glowed dim in my hand as I set the phone down on the scarred table. The envelope for his “donation” sat ready in the desk drawer—two bills thicker than last time, because fear needed fertilizer to grow steady. The inspector wasn’t crooked. Crooked meant sloppy. He was practical, like me.
The rain outside ticked harder against the glass. My coffee had gone cold, but the bitterness sat just right on my tongue. One call down. One thread pulled. The block would stay quiet, at least on paper.
Now for the neighbor. She was loud, nosy, and blessed with a moral compass so high she could smell smoke two streets over. I liked her. People like her kept the city sharp. And sharp things cut clean, if you knew how to handle them.
I reached for the phone again.
The phone rang twice before she picked up. Her voice was sharp, tired—like someone who’d been counting every car door slam on the block for a decade.
“What?” she barked.
“Evening, Miss Geneva,” I said, calm as a priest. “How’s that porch light holding up?”
She hesitated. “Trigger. What do you want?”
“I wanted to thank you for being the neighborhood’s conscience,” I told her smoothly. “Your calls keep this block cleaner than the mayor’s handshake.”
“Then clean it better,” she snapped. “I’m tired of the noise. The bass shakes my windows. Kids can’t sleep.”
I smiled into the receiver. “That’s exactly why I’m calling. I got you a direct line. Special number. You call it, and it rings first in the right ears. We’ll take care of the noise before the city even has time to yawn.”
She went quiet. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” I said softly. “You just get peace faster. You deserve that, don’t you?”
“I don’t trust you,” she muttered.
“You don’t have to,” I replied. “You trust quiet nights. That’s all I’m offering. A number that makes the block behave.”
There was a pause. I could hear her TV humming low in the background, the sound of some game show audience clapping.
“What if I don’t call it?” she tested.
“Then the city gets slower,” I said, voice like a blade sliding back into a sheath. “And while they take their time, folks keep playing their music loud, and your windows keep rattling. You like sleeping through that?”
She sighed, annoyed but tempted. “Give me the number.”
I recited it slow, once. She repeated it, pen scratching on paper.
“Good,” I murmured. “Now, Miss Geneva… call me before you call them. Let me prove I’m better at keeping peace than the city.”
“You’re not,” she muttered.
“Maybe not,” I allowed my tone calm. “But I’m faster. That counts for something.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
I set the phone down, leaned back in my chair, and let the rain beat its rhythm against the window. She’d call. People like her always did. Not because they trusted me—but because I made them feel heard. And in Lyon Crest, feeling heard was rarer than safety.
Third, the kid who runs flyers. Copies are cheap when they ain’t for truth. The kid picked up on the first ring, voice jittery like he owed me money.
“Yo, Trigger.”
“Relax,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Ain’t nobody dying tonight. You still got that printer?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s workin’.”
“Good,” I murmured. “You’re running two stacks for me. One says Community Night. Bright colors. Balloons, smiling kids, all that fake hope. The other says Sheriff-Sponsored Outreach. Seal at the top. Make it look official enough to scare the soft ones.”
“Alright. How many?”
“Hundred of each,” I answered, slow enough to make him write it down right the first time. “You know who gets which. Smart mouths get the sheriff flyer. Nosy neighbors get the community one. I wanna see which rumor runs faster.”
He hesitated. “So… I drop these where? Same spots?”
“No,” I argued, voice flat. “This time you walk. Hand-to-hand. Let ‘em see your face. Let ‘em think they’re important. You’re not a flyer boy—you’re bait. Smile when you hand it over. People remember smiles more than paper.”
He let out a nervous laugh. “You’re wild, Trigger.”
“I’m effective,” I corrected, my tone sharp enough to cut the air. “Now listen: if anyone asks who sent you, you tell ‘em it was some lady at the community center. Don’t give ‘em my name. Not even a whisper. Understand?”
“Got it,” he said quickly.
“Good.” I leaned forward, voice dropping low. “If one of those stacks runs faster than the other, I wanna hear about it before sunrise. If you’re late, you’ll wish the sheriff was the one knocking.”
Silence. Then: “Yes, sir.”
I ended the call, no goodbye.
I leaned back, phone still warm in my palm, eyes on the street through the blinds.
Lyon Crest was quiet the way wolves get quiet before a kill—still but breathing heavy.
Flyers would hit hands before midnight. Gossip would be gospel by dawn.
That’s how I liked it: control the conversation before it controlled me.
I scrolled to Cruz’s number. Didn’t need to hit dial yet.
Just seeing his name lit the edges of my temper.
The man owed me nothing and everything at the same time—a dangerous kind of balance.
He’d answer, though. They always did. I cracked my knuckles and hit call, letting the first ring drag out like a warning.
He picked up on the second ring, voice heavy like he’d been expecting this. “Trigger.”
“Cruz,” I said, calm but cutting. “You sleepin’ easy?”
A pause. “Trying to.”
“Don’t,” I muttered. “Got too much riding on your doorstep to be comfortable.”
He grunted, low, like he already knew where this was going. “What do you need?”
“Not need. Expect,” I corrected. “That envelope I slid under Lani’s door? Consider that me keepin’ you ahead of a problem instead of under it. Fire inspection’s Monday. They’re lookin’ for reasons to write you up. I’m handing you the cheat sheet.”
His breath hitched quiet. “They comin’ for me?”
“They’re comin’ for whoever looks soft,” I voiced, flat. “And right now, you look like you been busy playing husband instead of boss. That’s cute. Dangerous, but cute.”
He exhaled slow. “So, what’s the play?”
“Clean your kitchen like the Pope’s coming for dinner,” I ordered. “Wipe every bottle. Fix the damn light in the back hallway. And when they show, you smile like they’re your favorite cousins. They leave happy, we stay invisible. You screw it up; I can’t make you disappear fast enough.”
Cruz was quiet for a beat too long. “You threatening me?”
“I’m warning you,” I corrected, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t waste time threatening family. But family knows better than to bring heat to my doorstep.”
His tone softened. “Alright. I’ll handle it.”
“You better,” I firmly stated, and ended the call before he could breathe another word.
Saint was up next. I didn’t expect him to answer, but I hit dial anyway. Rings stacked up in my ear like they were counting down to something. No answer. No voicemail either. Just dead space.
I leaned back in the chair, phone pressed to my ear, and spoke low, like he was there anyway.