Chapter 11
“Bam” by Jay-Z
Ethic hated this. Emerging from the shadows.
Defending his kingdom. He had walked many paths in life, seen many corners of the earth, and played every aspect of the game.
He had seen all. Lived all. This was his least favorite position.
The ruthless king. It was a throne he had long abandoned, but once crowned, it was a station a nigga always had to defend.
Fatherhood and marriage had pushed him to a neutral ground.
But the business in which he had built his wealth was not one you retired from easily.
Someone or something always came back around.
The only time a king could abandon his kingdom was when his crown hit the ground.
So, here he was, taking off the mask that allowed him to govern his family, to kiss his children goodnight, and to walk into a church with his wife on Sunday mornings.
Ethic’s daily life consisted of changing diapers, fixing up old-school classic cars, football practices, volleyball meets, and overseeing his business endeavors.
He had transformed his life into something many men took for granted, but beneath all that was a past filled with anarchy.
That past had come knocking at his door today, and he was full of rage because his family had been present.
There was a time when he had lived to prove his power.
Ethic used to pull triggers as casually as he breathed.
He was always ready to get active when provoked, but this switching of roles, this tucking his vulnerability, his growth behind the history of his legend to make sure his family was safe, was damaging.
The bloodshed. The malice it took to lace up his old boots was hard to reel back in.
Ethic was a man healed by the love of a woman, by the trust of his children, by the responsibility of leadership and fatherhood.
This shit required the most unhealed parts of him to reveal themselves.
But fuck it. Ethic knew how to play ball.
Once a shooter, always a shooter. The thought of what could have happened had he not spotted the tail sent him to a merciless place.
Ethic was a killer, and he didn’t own that proudly, but he was who he was, and as much as he wanted to be redeemed, threatening his family’s safety would always bring out the worst in him. He had put a gun in his daughter’s hand today. Somebody had to atone for that.
He hated everything about the authorities, but he was wise enough to know connections within the force were necessary.
One call from a burner phone, and the occupants of the vehicle that had followed him were identified.
He had already deactivated the internet signal on the entire block to ensure that no cameras would pick up what was about to occur, and he drove one of the older model cars from his auto repair shop, swapping out the plates for dummy plates, so it couldn’t be traced in case someone saw it.
His personal cell phone had been left at home so that it would ping off the cell towers all night.
He knew how to create a firm alibi for himself.
It was necessary for what the night held in store for him.
Standing over a nigga’s bed, tapping into the darkest parts of himself, Ethic dreaded that he had to do this again. He wanted to be so much better than the world allowed. Somehow, he always ended up taking fate into his own hands.
He held his gun firmly in one hand, and he took the barrel and tapped it on the sleeping man’s forehead.
The man leapt out of his sleep as consciousness made him aware of the danger he was in. Before he could panic, Ethic had him pressed against the space between the nightstand and the mattress.
“Aht, aht, aht,” he chastised. The death grip he placed around the man’s neck with his free hand was so tight that Ethic felt the muscles in that man’s neck as he strained and struggled beneath his weight.
“You wanted to see me, here I am,” he said. His calm was terrifying. He was strong and in complete control. The grip he used wasn’t random. He applied pressure to the tendons supporting this man’s spine. If Ethic squeezed hard enough, he would snap this man’s neck.
“Who sent you?” he demanded.
“Ahh!” the man screamed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man! You’ve got the wrong…”
Psst! Psst!
Two squeezes of the trigger. The bullets entered the man’s lower back.
“Ahhhh!” The roar he let out was bloodcurdling. Ethic was unmoved.
“Who the fuck sent you?” he asked again. “Hmm?” The man screamed in pain but offered no response.
“Let me show you something,” Ethic said. His aim was steady, keeping the man under his control as he stood upright. Ethic pulled a burner phone from his back pocket. He hit one button and turned the phone towards the man.
“OG, say the word and we running in this mu’fucka.” Isa was ready. Isa was always ready, and although he had been surprised to get the call at all, he was more than willing to ride.
“Man, please. That’s my mama house! Call your men off!” the man pleaded.
Ethic had no intention of taking the life of an innocent woman, but he knew how to dig underneath a nigga’s ribs to find where he was tender.
What Ethic didn’t know was that Isa was still young, and he didn’t give a fuck, especially right now.
Isa would take this night straight to hell.
Isa wasn’t a soldier in the same way Messiah and Ahmeek were.
He was a mercenary. He was earning Ethic’s respect, yes, proving himself worthy of connection, but he also loved this shit.
Isa was a murderer, and he felt no qualms about it.
“Say goodbye to your mama, nigga,” Isa said.
“CALL HIM OFF!” the man shouted; his tone of voice was full of desperation and fear.
“Last opportunity. Who sent you my way?”
“Nobody, man! I work security at the hospital! I laid on you when you brought your people in and tried to come up on a quick lick! It was stupid, man! I’m sorry! We were just tryna make some paper!” the man shouted. “Please, man! Don’t kill me!”
Ethic’s blood boiled at the stupidity. He had wrecked his brain seven ways to Sunday trying to identify where he had slipped up, and it was as simple as a doorman at the hospital.
Niggas in Flint were starving, and Ethic walked in with his Piguet, valeting his Range, and distracted by his worries, and niggas saw a meal ticket.
It was the way of the land. Flint was the place where the motherfucking valet boy could be a threat.
Wolves bred in the little Michigan city.
On any given day, a threat could arise. Niggas never needed a reason.
Ethic was so far removed from the trenches; he forgot how deep they could get.
He should have never pulled up to the hospital in the Range, and he for sure knew better than to walk in that bitch shining.
They were right. He looked like an opportunity to a nigga who had nothing to lose.
“Do you know who the fuck I am?” Ethic asked.
“Nah, man, me and my people just saw a lick! My mama about to lose her house, can’t pay for her insulin. I was just trying to get some paper, dawg. Swear to God!” the man yelled.
“Am I airing this bitch out or what, OG?” Isa asked.
Ethic shook his head in turmoil. Every single time he let his empathy show, it came back to haunt him.
Cream had been the tough lesson that would impact tonight’s fate.
There could be no gray in this portion of his life.
Love couldn’t infiltrate his ruling in the court of the streets.
Whenever he let empathy overrule his better judgment, he paid the ultimate price.
He gave up a son, trying to prove empathy in the past. A man who didn’t learn from his mistakes was doomed to repeat them.
“Who was with you?” Ethic asked.
“They some kids, man! Teenagers. My nephew and his friend! This is on me! Streets dry out here, man! I was desperate! I’m sorry!”
Ethic hated the voice he heard whispering inside him.
This was an economics problem, a crime of opportunity, not malice.
Ethic was no longer feeding the streets.
Messiah had gone legit, and Ahmeek had blown town.
Isa was the likely successor, but Isa had the hottest head of them all.
What made him a great right-hand, made him a terrible king.
He wouldn’t have the patience to build structure in the streets.
The top would eat, while the bottom would turn the city into mayhem, trying to prove they were worthy of a top spot.
As a result, desperation would ensue. When the hood got desperate, innocent people became targets.
This nigga just happened to target the wrong one.
He saw a grieving, affluent grandfather, checking in to visit his ailing granddaughter, and he assumed Ethic could be tried. He assumed wrong.
Ethic would need to restore order in these streets. It was necessary because his children spent time in the city.
“You eat what you earn, not what you kill. If you try to kill your meal, nigga, you better make sure it’s easy prey,” Ethic stated. “Sit up.”
The man grimaced as he trembled from the pain of the two holes Ethic had plugged him with.
“I can’t let you walk out of here, but I’ma do you a favor and let it end here. Who’s your nephew? What’s his name? Who’s the friend? How old are they?”
“Sixteen, man,” the man sniveled. “They was following orders. I can’t give you their names.”
Boys masquerading as men. Ethic knew that story.
“They’ll live,” Ethic said, holding the man under a tense stare while gritting his teeth so hard his jaw throbbed.
“Your mama will keep her house and get her medicine every month.” Ethic felt time fall off his life as he pulled the trigger.
Hollow. Dead center of the man’s forehead.
His body dropped, and Ethic lowered the gun and his head in disgrace.
“I’m sick of this shit, man,” he mumbled.
“What we doing, man? It’s two little niggas coming out the house now. You think this them? I can lay ‘em down right now.” Isa turned the camera to the yard of the unsuspecting house, and Ethic’s chest ached.
“Let them be,” he said. “I’ma send you an address.
I need you to put this work on display, and sweep this shit, make sure nothing’s undone.
Send a message. Leave the woman who lives there out of it.
Drop off a package later today, a quarter in cash.
Take it out your stash and pick it up from me later. Come by the house.”
“By your house?” Isa asked, his voice revealing shock. He’d never had an open invite before. He was given a pass by affiliation.
“Your ears work, no?” Ethic shot back.
“Just making sure, OG. You usually tap Messiah,” Isa stated.
“Messiah’s out,” Ethic said sternly. “You already requiring too much back and forth. I don’t do too much talking. You can handle this, or no?”
“Hell yeah,” Isa said. “It’s done.”
Ethic hung up the phone and looked at his work. He felt nothing. No remorse. No fear. He wanted to maintain his faith and be a changed man, but if the sacrifice were his family or his life, he would tap into his instincts every time. God would have to forgive or condemn. He would find out one day.
Ethic’s spirit was unsettled. The randomness of this incident felt too convenient for him. He couldn’t deny that some of the most powerful men had fallen victim to unsuspecting acts of violence; he just needed to be sure. As he exited the house and disappeared into the night, he placed one call.
“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Okafor, the way I smile ear to ear when I see this number is insane. Thank God my husband is a confident man.”
One would think they had been intimate before, but the old friends simply did good business together.
“Give him my regard,” Ethic replied.
Ethic heard the smile disappear from her face when she spoke her next words. “You sound serious. Is Alani, okay? Your kids?” she asked. “I heard about the birth of your daughter. I hope you got my flowers.”
“We did, thank you. We’re finding our way back. Healing is slow, but we’ll get there,” he said. “Somebody took a shot at me while I was with my family.”
“Somebody had a death wish then,” she answered.
“Seems random, but…”
“Nothing’s ever random,” she finished for him.
“It’s handled, but I need to know if this is related to the Fredericks family,” Ethic said.
“Your daughter’s boyfriend’s family? The royals in London? I thought we went through this when she decided to go to school over there.”
“Yeah, apparently, we missed some shit. Can you do a deeper dive and let me know what comes up in the network?” he asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “We’re almost at…”
“Three minutes,” Ethic concluded.
They had never spoken longer than that on the phone, even though their phones were untraceable.
“I’m beginning to hate that rule,” she said.
Ethic scoffed. “That rule has kept us out of trouble for a long time,” he answered.
She laughed. “Yes, it has.”
“Besides, you just love the art of flirting. Love to see your presence shift a room. You ain’t talking ‘bout nothing,” he said.
“And neither are you,” she laughed. “Never thought I’d see the day you stopped spinning the block on our mutual friend.”
Ethic scoffed. “Three minutes are up, Zya Miller. Let me know what you find out.”
“Goodnight, Ethic. I’ll be in touch.” Zya was six hours ahead of him, living a luxurious and safe existence in Europe. He wondered if putting an ocean between him and the streets would be the only way he could truly tap out of the game. Zya just might be on to something, Ethic thought.
“Goodnight to you, Zya. I’m headed to a parent meeting. The day is young around my way,” he chuckled.
“A gangster and a gentleman,” Zya shot back.
“Be safe.” They ended the call and Ethic pulled the car over and dismantled the phone, removing the sim card, then tossing it into the Flint River.
Zya already had the number to the new SIM card he would insert when she needed to reach him.
They had a system and it worked. It kept them both safe.
He hoped her search didn’t uncover more than a coincidence, because if this was residual smoke from killing Bash, they were in more trouble than he thought.