Tariq “Reek” Horton
Me, Saint, and Big A rode in a plain work van through the South Side, with a dirty exterior, to the Crown stash house.
Big A drove. Saint sat in the passenger seat, checking his piece and his spare mag.
I was in the back with the duffels and gloves, watching the streets through the tinted rear window while running the plan through my head again.
Jamir had earned his money on this one. The Crowns’ main stash house was hard to find because it was hidden in plain sight.
It was a “warehouse” on a dead block with no signage or obvious business, and it was designed to look boring.
He gave us the address, shift changes, door habits, camera placements, and the back entry.
He told us the Crown used a silent alert system tied to their cameras.
If you tripped it, you didn’t hear an alarm.
You heard gunfire five seconds later. He gave us the location of the box on the exterior wall that fed that system.
Big A parked the van down the block. We climbed out together and moved down the alley fast. I went to the exterior box first. Jamir told me the screws were special, what tool would fit them, and what wire would kill the feed without spiking the alert.
I popped the panel, clipped what he told me to clip, then pulled a small handheld jammer from my coat and flicked it on. It wasn’t going to shut the whole building down. It was only going to buy us seconds.
Saint and Big A were positioned on both sides of the back entry. The Crown expected problems at the front. Their back was guarded too, with two men who stood outside the rear door.
Saint quietly moved first. He came up behind the closest guard and drove a blade under his ribs. The man tried to yell, but Saint covered his mouth and held him until his body gave up.
The second guard turned, raising his piece. I fired one suppressed round into his throat. He stumbled back, choking, with wide eyes. Big A caught him and lowered him before he hit the ground loudly enough to alert the inside.
Saint tested the handle, but it was locked. Big A pulled a small tool kit from his coat and went to work on the lock.
Soon, the lock clicked. Big A opened the door two inches, checked the angle, and then pushed it open wider.
Inside was darker than the alley. A camera sat above the entry, but the feed was already dead. We moved down a narrow hall toward the main room. But they had a man watching the hall from a shadowed office, and the moment he saw movement that didn’t match their routine, he squeezed the trigger.
Bullets snapped down the hallway. We dropped and returned fire immediately. Big A fired from a low position. Saint fired faster, with his loud mouth open, talking through it like he enjoyed the chaos. “COME ON THEN! Come get your thirty percent, motherfuckas!”
I pushed forward on the left, cleared the office doorway, and put two rounds into the shooter before he could reset his angle. A door deeper inside slammed open, and I could hear hurried footsteps against the concrete. Somebody yelled in Spanish, and the building woke up fast.
We hit the main room, and it opened up into the warehouse space stacked with shrink-wrapped bundles, crates, and gun cases. Two men were already behind cover near a table, firing toward the entrance.
Big A moved right and took an angle that trapped their line of fire, forcing them to stay behind cover. I cut left along the shelving, clearing each gap as I went. Saint went straight down the middle, acting like he was bulletproof.
The room erupted. Guns cracked. Shelves splintered. Men shouted over each other while bodies hit concrete.
In the middle of it, I saw Saint step forward to finish a man behind a shelf. I also saw a Crown shooter come out from a side room with his gun already raised. He was behind Saint, close enough to put the barrel to the back of his head.
Saint didn’t see him, but I did.
I fired, and my round hit the shooter in the face. His gun went off into the ceiling. Dust rained down. Saint spun and finished him off.
He looked at me for half a second. “Good looking.”
“Pay attention, nigga.”
“That’s all of ’em,” Big A said, coming up from behind. “Let’s load this shit and get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed product and guns, filled the duffels, dragged crates to the back, and loaded the van until there wasn’t room for anything else.
Then I left my calling card in the doorway, a black king chess piece.