7. Tremaine “Trigger” Marks #4
“Saint,” I muttered. “You ever think about how many doors are locked because of you? Not because you’re a threat, but because you’re a shadow people trust more than their own locks. That’s a gift. Don’t waste it.”
I let the silence stretch, then ended the call. He’d get the message. Men like him didn’t need to hear it live to know it was meant for them.
I leaned back in my chair, the leather sighing like it was tired of me. The office smelled like cigars that died years ago and gun oil that never leaves. The single desk lamp burned low, throwing long shadows across the walls—shadows that moved if I stared too long.
The burner sat in front of me, screen glowing pale blue. I spun the chair half a turn, slow, back to the wall. Habit. Never face a window when you’re texting about war.
I cracked my knuckles, one by one, and thumbed out the first text:
Tino: layout map. *one attachment*
He read that, grunted once, and started drawing like he was etching scripture.
A flick of the lighter. Flame danced, died. I typed again.
Jinx: placement approved.
Jinx would decode that like it was gospel. Man knew silence better than words.
I spun the chair again, back to the desk. The screws squealed. My paranoia had a soundtrack. I scanned the door latch. Still locked. I like to check even when I know.
Mouse: Tony’s last known.
I didn’t like Tony running around blind. He was a loud drum in a quiet song.
My lips twitched at the next text. Couldn’t help it.
Whit: dress like a human, not a mayonnaise ad.
He’d come polished anyway. Rich boys like him wear fear under clean collars.
I hovered over Saint’s name, thumb an inch from the screen. No text. Men like him moved when the air shifted, not when a phone buzzed.
I leaned back, set the lighter on my knee, and flicked it open again. Flame. Click. Darkness. The fan on the desk chopped the air slow, blades slicing through smoke ghosts left over from the last cigar I didn’t finish.
Every name I’d texted was a spark. And I was sitting here with a pocket full of matches, waiting for the city to burn.
Morning crept in like a thief, slow and gray, and I let it.
The office smelled like cold metal and burnt coffee, chair groaning every time I leaned back.
I spun that quarter over the desk, heads and tails flashing like a coin toss between life and death.
Outside, rain tapped a code only men like me know how to read—slow drips for patience, hard slaps for war.
Every buzz of my phone was another ghost answering orders they didn’t realize might bury someone later.
I traced maps in my head: streets, alleys, doors I’ve walked through and doors I’ve kicked in.
The game wasn’t about muscle; it was about tempo.
Set it too fast, someone panics. Too slow, and someone thinks they’re safe. Both get you killed.
At noon, I ate noodles over the sink, no table.
A table makes food a conversation, and I wasn’t in the mood to answer questions no one had the courage to ask yet.
Lani texted a photo of the envelope I’d slid under her door last night—paper sharp in the foreground, her ring glinting on the counter, the kettle behind it steaming like a warning.
No words. Just a message. She didn’t expect a reply, and she wouldn’t get one.
Silence keeps respect alive longer than pleasantries.
It’s better when people wonder what you’re thinking.
Fear fills in the blanks faster than words.
I swung by the club to check locks and lights.
Exit signs glowed steady, liquor cage intact, and the smell of motor oil lingered in the air like an oath.
Outside, the lot sat quiet, except for the rain tapping on bike seats lined in a row like soldiers at attention.
I palmed the quarter, flipped it over every plate.
Heads up—clean. Heads down—someone was slipping.
Three tails in a row, and my gut tightened.
Someone was getting too comfortable, and comfort around here gets people killed.
I pocketed the names like bullets. Not yet chambered. Soon.
Mouse met me with a bag of donuts he wasn’t earning. “Tony posted,” he said, mouth full. “Behind the barber with the busted chair.”
“Give him a tape,” I instructed.
“What kind?”
“The kind with red on it,” I answered. “Tell him good cameras wore red like luck.”
Mouse grinned because he thought he was on my level. I didn’t correct him. The difference between a teacher and a leader was simple: teachers explained. Leaders expected. I didn’t have that kind of time.
The alley smelled like fried grease and damp cardboard as Mouse drifted off, and I slipped back into the hum of the city.
Time was ticking, every errand another wire in the trap I was setting.
The rain had eased, but the streets were still slick— reflective, dangerous.
The next move was already mapped out. It wasn’t much I had to do now but wait.
The afternoon sky seemed to have given up on life. Lyon Crest was gloomier this rainy season, but honestly it was going to get darker in the time to come. Especially for the MC.
I took the long route past the school that still had a bullet hole in the bell.
Kids sprinted out ready for some time away from structured society.
Aaliyah was too small for school. She didn’t know clocks yet.
She knew naps and spoons and the way her mother hummed when the window shook.
That was power bigger than money. It scared men who never had it. It scared me the right amount.
I didn’t hurt kids. That wasn’t a brag. That was a boundary in my book. Names passed around easy in a city like ours. I wanted mine to pass for a long time. People who hurt kids didn’t get to retire. They looked over their shoulders at night.
At the corner, Darius’s Ducati idled with an arrogance it didn’t earn. He flicked ash from a cigarette he wasn’t smoking. The cop car that rolled by looked dead in our faces and forgot our names on purpose. That was the magic you paid for. It was ugly. It was efficient. I didn’t romanticize it.
“Friday,” Darius informed me. “You want speeches?”
“I want Ro to think the air loves his words,” I grinned. “I want men to nod dogwise while they consider where to put their money next. I want a camera to find itself full. You get me that, I get you quiet.”
He pointed at my chest. “Don’t threaten me with silence.”
I smiled because his father never taught him that men like me didn’t threaten. We budgeted.
“Wear brown,” I let out, and rode off before he decided his feelings were hurt. Men like him called meetings over feelings. I ran rooms with plans. The difference showed on Friday nights.
The Ducati’s roar faded behind me, but the weight of his smirk lingered. Deals like that didn’t get handshakes, just chess pieces moved in the rain. I pulled the throttle, let the wind scrape off the tension, and headed toward the one block I couldn’t stop circling.
Evening dripped back into the gutters. I circled Nova’s block once more because consistency was a language and I spoke all of them when it was useful.
Saint’s brights blinked twice again. He had a rhythm too.
I pulled into the alley and listened. Apartment hum, the little plastic fan that thought it was an air conditioner, the radio low to save the baby from learning about heartbreak too early.
A prayer scooted under the door. I didn’t catch the words.
Some words you didn’t earn by being near them.
I left a second envelope. This one was empty.
She’d feel the weight and open it and find nothing and hate me just enough to make sure the chain stayed around her neck when she slept.
That kept her alive too. My enemies were always confused by how often my protection looked like a threat.
That was because they didn’t understand outcomes. They only understood poses.
Downstairs, Tony held court in a plastic chair that used to be white. The camcorder was on his lap; strap looped around his wrist like he was afraid the wind would steal it. He chewed a toothpick like it owed him rent.
“You ready for Friday, Spielberg?” I asked.
He lit up hella fast because I knew his pretend name. “Man, I was born ready. I got tapes. I got angles. I got?—”
“You got two feet,” I cut in. “You’ll stand by the fence near Tino’s cousin’s truck. You’ll point that relic at the gate. Don’t follow drama into the yard. You film the gate. You hear me?”
He tried to argue because he thought art was chaos. “But what if?—”
“You film the gate,” I repeated. “The gate is where men enter and exit. That’s where stories change shape, feel me?”
He nodded, chastised and proud all at once. “You gonna say something good?”
“I’m not saying anything,” I told him. “But you’ll hear everything.”
He didn’t understand. He didn’t need to. The camera would.
I left him there with his pride and relic, slipped through the block like smoke, and headed to the bar that smelled like dust and spilled secrets.
If I was going to tie this net tighter, I needed a word with a man who hated me enough to tell me the truth straight.
I need this shit raw, on my mama. The time was ticking, and I wasn’t going to be on the other end of the bomb.