Lighter Shade of Brown (Urban Fiction) BWHM

Chapter 17

The process had been long and the night endless, but finally, they had reached their destination. After going two hours off course to a club in Fort Walton just to establish an alibi, C's was just ready to get on with the task, no matter the outcome. Coasting the Bonneville off the road, two miles away from the target, he shut off the headlights as he guided the car into the underbrush next to the Alabama state line sign. His eyes flicked to the rearview, making sure that the other three hoopties that followed did the same. The last thing they needed was an unsuspected variable, like them being made by Vasquez's crew for something as simple as not shutting off their damn head lights.

As he switched off the engine, a silent prayer for his family and girl left him by way of his heart. If things went sideways, while out in the field, he wanted them to be able to move on from his final fuck up. Not sit around, dwelling on shit that was unchangeable. He hoped for his mom's peace of mind, and for Cleo's happiness. Maybe in time, Ant and she would realize what he'd always known, what he was just too damn selfish to acknowledge in life. The depth of those thoughts however, were even now unnavigable. He still had too much air in his lungs to allow himself to sink to the bottom of that logic. Maybe when he was choking on his blood, gasping for his next breath, he'd give the devil his due and entertain the notion, but only when he was a fraction of a second away from permanently crossing death's doorsill, would that blessing be granted.

"Pop the trunk," Putt said, before opening the door and exiting the car.

C's reached down and pulled the lever as Juan and Ernesto climbed from the back seat. After popping the trunk, he followed suit, while yanking a ski mask from the back pocket of his black Dickies. As he accustomed himself to the darkness, thunder rumbled in the distance and competed with the rumbling nerves in his stomach for sound dominance. Moving to the back of the vehicle, he watched as Putt sifted through some weapons that Nine didn't even have yet.

"Still don't see why we didn't park a little closer to 'em." Ernesto said, reaching in the trunk and grabbing an M-16 by the body strap. "What if shit goes south and we have to get the fuck outta dodge fast, then what? You expect us to run two miles back to the cars? Man we're dead!"

"We'd be dead anyway if we fucked around and got any closer than this." C's snapped, arming himself with a tech nine, and an M-16 military issued rifle. "Vasquez's men patrols run a two mile radius from their trap house, they woulda made our asses before we had a chance to get out the rides."

"Shit, we already pushin' it by being this close," Putt added, stuffing a grenade in the front pocket of his black utility vest. "Stop worrying about what'll happen if things go south. Just handle your business, that's how you make sure everything is everything."

"Yeah, Nest," Juan said, aiming his glock nine into the trees, before holstering the weapon in the leather case at his hip. "Stop being a little bitch all the time. You sound just like one of my side lines. Always got yo mouth open, without a got damn thang to say."

"I got yo' bitch, niño," Ernesto said, attempting to shove Putt out of the way to get to Juan. C's released an annoyed sigh as he body blocked Ernesto with his shoulder.

"Chill," C's growled through clenched teeth. "Settle this shit on the block, right now we got business. Either be about it, or climb your ass back in the car. It's on you."

Not waiting on their decision he swaggered to the next ride to gather his home boys and explain the lick. Once everyone was strapped and gathered around an old school Cadillac, he surveyed each of their faces. False bravado, masked expressions of potent fear as they all stared back at him expectantly, ready to fall in line and trustingly follow his lead. He shuffled his thoughts for the right words to relay the plan. Sure they'd gone back and forth over the details, but hey, call him a perfectionist, because he needed to hear that each one of them knew where they needed to be and what their jobs were.