𝐑𝐮𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭 ✪ YBN Nahmir

𝐂𝐇. 31 / 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

Placing Yéri from his chest onto the couch they were laying on in his room, he quietly sneaks away not wanting her begging him to take her with him. It'll be too dangerous, plus it was nighttime past curfew. The curfew didn't apply to him, though. As everyone knows, his name was infamous.

Not closing the door, he walks downstairs to the garage picking the all black, president tinted window modern Mustang. After climbing into the car, he drives off into the night.

Climbing out of his car, he walks into the Taylor-Santana owned bar to have a discussion. He was feeling iffy about the situation, but his gut was telling him something was wrong. The vibe in the air was off as he looks around the place at the people. The bar was too silent, the bartender looked like they knew something, and the performer was singing a song that wasn't even local. It was a native Latin song. No one's native in the bar. Or so he thought.

A feeling of unease came over him as he felt for the handle of his strap, the two guns feeling cold.

He didn't bother to show up for the discussion.

This was a set up.

Someone set him up in his own establishment, knowing he'd be there. A equal set of men and women and men turn around before one murmurs, "He's here, boss," their accent was thick and unlocalized as they spoke into existence, probably having a earpiece located on the hind of their canal. No improper intentions was evident within their voice.

Nahmir shook his head smirking, "Oh fuck no," whipping out his two guns he had located in his belt, he began to pop the Russians from left to right, dropping most like flies. Bullets were flying through the atmosphere as he rolls behind the bar, shooting the bartender. The Russians had overtaken the bar.

A bullet grazed his shoulder, but he was unphased as he swipes a person off their feet. It was many against one as he aims for them all. His clips were emptied before he thrown them at one's head, taking their guns in the process. He repeated this a couple times before they were all defeated.

He grabs a Russian by their grimy collar, "Who sent you?!" he tugs their shirt causing them to groan, "I said, who sent you?!"

"Mr. Sandiego-Ruirez! Please don't kill me, Mr. Santana! I'll do anything!" the man cries. Nahmir shoves him back down before placing his Nike shoe onto the man's throat.

"Go take a fucking bath. You reek," Nahmir kicks the man on the head, causing him to knock out.

"Ain't this a fuckin' bitch," he mumbles as he looks around the bar. The place was damaged.

"You doin' a lot right now, Sandiego," Nahmir said, "somebody snitched. I know who it is, too. Traitorous ass niggas."

Yéri wakes up to a empty side as usual. Sighing, she lays her head down again and patiently wait for him to come through the door.

"Get them niggas in here," the men looked at Nahmir, lost. He was getting irritated, "NOW, NIGGA!"

They scrambled once they seen the advanced weapon in his hand. They bring in the suspects Nahmir last talked to.

"Which one of y'all niggas done snitched, huh?" Nahmir asks.

"Man, what're you talm 'bout? Who snitched? I ain't tryin' to get thrown into a ditch or to bitches because I know how you is, bruh. I would never cross you," one said as Nahmir stares at him.

"Well, the first musketeer has his reason. What about you?" Nahmir points.

"I didn't do it," his simple sentence made him suspicious. Nahmir ought to get back to him.