Chapter Tariq “Reek” Horton
TARIQ “REEK” HORTON
I could never get used to how we could go from ladies and kicking it, to blood and gangsta shit in the blink of an eye. The basement we used for ugly shit sat under one of the laundromats. As machines ran upstairs, nobody knew what was happening under their feet.
Down here there were concrete walls, one buzzing light, and a metal chair in the middle of the floor.
Monáe’s baby daddy was in that chair with zip-ties biting at his wrists and ankles taped to the legs.
The smell of his sweat and fear cut through the stench of bleach.
Monáe was one of the cartel's most trusted runners.
We trusted her to transport an inconceivable amount of drugs and money across the country, and she never played us.
Saint was in front of him, pacing slow, humming some song off-key that was playing on his phone.
His gun was dangling from his fingers like a toy.
“You know what type of nigga you gotta be to drag a woman by her hair in our building, in front of her kid… then post that shit like it’s funny?
” He laughed, loud and sudden, then suddenly smacked the barrel of the gun against dude’s cheek.
It wasn’t a full hit, just a taste. The man’s head snapped sideways, and blood gathered at the corner of his mouth.
I leaned on the wall by the door with my arms folded, just watching Saint work.
This bitchass nigga had dragged Monáe through the Cartier Beauty Bar by her wig in front of eight-year-old Kalen, then got online and posted “Cartiers ain’t gon’ do shit ??”.
He found out tonight that was the punchline.
“I told you, man,” he babbled, breathing hard. “I was drunk. We was just arguing...”
Saint laughed again. “Nigga, I don’t want to hear that shit! You snatched your child’s mother up by her scalp. Own that.”
I pushed off the wall and walked over slowly. “Look at me.”
He tried to stare at the floor. I grabbed his jaw, thumb digging into his cheek, and lifted his head. His wild, teary eyes met mine.
“You know who I am?” I barked.
“Re-Reek. I know. I know, bro. I—”
“Then you know I don’t come down here to talk.
” I let his face go, pushing hard. There was blood in the imprint of my nails on his cheeks.
“You had the nerve to touch one of ours in a building with our name on the deed. You made her son look at her like she couldn’t protect him.
Then you got online, talking shit. That’s three violations in one night. You a busy motherfucka.”
He started shaking his head vigorously. “Please, man, I’ll apologize...”
“You know why you still sitting here breathing?”
“Because y’all… y’all got hearts,” he tried.
Saint snorted. “Wrong door, church boy.”
“You breathing because Monáe asked us not to kill you. That’s the only reason. She said she don’t want her son putting flowers on your grave. She just wants you gone.”
“Thank you,” he sobbed. “Thank you, I’ll go, I swear—”
“Oh, you’re leaving,” I taunted him. “But we gotta make sure you remember why.”
I pulled my gun.
He went rigid. “Reek, please...”
Saint was already pulling a thick roll of black tape off the table. “Relax,” he said cheerfully. “If he was gon’ kill you, I’d be sitting down with popcorn.”
He slapped a piece of tape over the man’s mouth before he could scream, then stepped back, humming again as he turned the music up on his phone.
“One for the kid,” I said quietly, aiming at his right knee.
The shot exploded through the room. His body jerked and the chair scraped hard against the concrete as he screamed into the tape. Dark, wet blood spread fast under his jeans.
He tried to suck air through his nose, and his chest heaved like it might explode.
Saint grinned. “You gonna remember that every time the weather change. Little Kalen gon’ be in high school and your shit still gon’ hurt.”
I moved my aim to the other leg. His eyes widened. He tried to kick, but the tape held him to the chair.
“This one’s for the internet,” I said, and squeezed.
Then there was another explosion and another muffled scream. His head dropped forward. Spit and snot soaked the tape. His body trembled so hard the whole chair vibrated.
I tucked the gun away and stepped in close so he could see my face through the blur of his tears. “You feel that? That’s mercy. Every step you take limpin’ out of this city, you gon’ remember Monáe, Kalen, and the Cartiers you said wouldn’t do shit.”
His eyes rolled in pain, but he nodded as much as he could.
Saint peeled the tape halfway off his mouth so he could wheeze. “Say ‘thank you’.”
“Th-thank you,” he choked.
“I better never hear your name again. If I do, we not stopping at your legs,” I threatened.
Again, he was nodding feverishly. I turned away from him as I told Saint, “Let’s roll.”
Our security team would take Monáe’s baby daddy to the Cartel doc and get him patched up.
As Saint followed me out of the basement, I rolled my shoulders, already feeling the switch flip in my head. Basement Reek was fading away and public Reek was returning.
Upstairs, the machines were loud enough to muffle noise from the basement. Kids ran between baskets while their mamas folded clothes. A few dudes were in there too, doing their own laundry. Nobody looked twice at us.
Saint pushed through the glass door and the wind cut through my jeans.
“Man, fuck, this weather so disrespectful,” Saint fussed.
As I laughed, my breath turned into smoke. “Nigga, it’s January. It’s always disrespectful.”
We dap’d up quick, and I headed toward my truck. I climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and let the heat blast my hands while I pulled out of the parking space.
My phone rang through the speakers.
It was Prodigy, one of my young homies. He was moving weight with his cousins, Wise and Vega. They called themselves The Street Kings. They’d been making noise for months and building a name fast.
“Talk to me,” I answered, easing onto the street.
“Reek, I need you to holla at the Cartiers for us.”
“For what?”
“We need a new plug. We tryin’ to get under y’all. Street Kings need the Cartiers as our distributors.”
“What’s wrong with your current connect?”
Prodigy blew out a breath. “He movin’ sloppy.
He got pinched last week. He out on bond and still talking too much.
Plus, he shortin’ the bags, trying to make his loss back on us.
And the shortin’ ain’t even clean. He cuttin’ it wrong.
Customers complaining, money slowing down, and now his block hot. ”
That was a good enough reason. Heat and greed would kill a pipeline every time. “You know what it cost to level up with us.”
“I know.”
“You sure?” I stressed. “Cartiers don’t do ‘a little bit.’ If they give you a line, you gotta move major weight consistently. Minimum is ten bricks to even be worth the conversation. And that’s just to start. Y’all three deep. That means y’all should be doing more than that.”
“We can do it,” he insisted. “Wise got the west side. Vega got the low end. I got the in-between. We can push it.”
I took a turn and my tires crunched over salted streets. “I’ll think about it.”
Prodigy went quiet for half a second like he didn’t like that answer. “When you gone let me know?”
“When I’m ready. If I decide it’s a yes, you’ll hear from me.”
“Bet,” he said, trying to sound patient.
“But peep this, if I put you under the Cartiers and you embarrass me, it won’t be your plug you gotta worry about.”