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Weeks Later
August rode through the city, and in a matter of weeks the streets had dried up. It looked like a ghost town. From Queens to Yonkers, all the way to Rhode Island, all of his operations were at a standstill and nobody was getting paid.
As he pulled up to Seventieth Street and Fifth Avenue he was more than livid. His most profitable blocks were turning no profit, and this alarmed him. He parked his black S-Class along the curb and checked his surroundings.
The notorious hood was known worldwide for its rutless stick-up kids, and August made sure that he was acutely aware of everything moving around him.
He pressed a button on his custom radio console, and a hidden compartment slid out. He grabbed the handgun that lay inside and tucked it in his waistline before exiting the vehicle. He approached the small project building, and all eyes were on him.
August was the slimmest nigga on the block, but he had the heart of a lion. Tall in stature, many men had learned the hard way by sizing him up at first glance. August didn't pop his gums, he popped his guns, so anyone he had ever caught beef with usually didn't live to tell about it.
He had made an example out of plenty since arriving in New York, which was why as he approached he was shown nothing but respect. The littered streets were unusually quiet.
"Wad'up 'doe?" he greeted Joey Badazz, one of the young'uns who worked as a lookout.
Joey Badazz leaned against the graffiti-tagged wall and was the perfect definition of a new school hustler. Fresh black leather Timberland boots laced his feet. He wore rock-washed skinny jeans that sagged slightly off his hips, and a black t-shirt underneath a olive bomber jacket. His gold chain, matching Rolex and designer Gucci belt accessorized his outfit.
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At first glance he didn't pose as a threat; one would never guess that he was a thorough shooter. His body count was official. He was never afraid of a gun battle, which was why he was the perfect lookout.
