Page 171 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

I strap on the vest and put my hoodie back on, before closing the trunk. The house is across the street and a few doors down, but there’s no one outside tonight. Not even niggas to guard the door.

Amateurs. Slime calls himself tryna bring these new niggas up, put money in they pockets since Reem moved the Birch Babies away from moving weight. Hire them as his personal security, personal errand boys, help promote this image of him giving back to the community that raised him.

There’s a reason that nigga could never be head of Foe Dub, even if he was head of the Birch Babies. The little things he misses, turn into big things, and then he got a whole kerfuffle and don’t know what the fuck to do.

Truly too big for his britches. Just like me, Slime's moral compass was Fred. His back up, always there to guide him when he was missing something. Briefly, I wonder who watches his back as he navigates politics, but as I stroll up to the house holding Nan, I push the thought away.

Nigga prolly won’t even make it to elections next year.

The sound the safety makes when I turn it off is the last thing I hear before my ears begin to ring. Almost as if they know it’s about to be some shit.

I don’t slow as I walk up to the front door, aim at the lock, and press the trigger slightly.

Ten rounds go into the door, before I kick it open. It’s four niggas in the front room, ready for me.

I sink three into the chest of the first dude, as one shot hits my vest.

A head shot to the second. A bullet grazes my arm.

My aim is off, but I keep my finger on the automatic trigger, and five go into the third nigga.

I never stop walking. And the fourth nigga shoots me point blank in my gut. The movement makes the side of my gun break bone when I knock it into his face.

He drops instantly, and I sink three in his head because while his weak ass bullet didn’t pierce the vest, that shit still hurts like a muthafucka.

The basement entrance is on the side of the house, so I take a left into the kitchen and go out of that door to the driveway. Slowly, I descend, my gun lowered until I see more than just two pairs of feet.

Nan is sitting in a chair. Only her feet are tied to the legs of it; her hands are free enough for her to be smoking a cigarette as she meets my gaze. Her face stays neutral, while her eyes light up, but not with relief, which has me thinking all isn’t what I think.

There’s a nigga standing beside her though, and he has a gun pointed at her head.

“Take another–”

I sink one into his forehead, not giving a fuck about negotiating.

Nan doesn’t flinch, opting to twist her mouth instead. “That wasn’t necessary, Ricky. Corbin wasn’t going to hurt me.”

I make it to her, placing my piece on the ground and fishing out my knife from my ankle sheath.

“These niggas snatched you out my crib and you just chillin’,” I rant, making quick work of the rope on her ankles.

“Give me a second to finish my cigarette. These bones are old.” She blows a plume of smoke away from us.

She doesn’t even look frazzled. Pooh is prolly pulling on the hair he cut months ago. Mars definitely will need therapy.

Tears won’t fall from my eyes, but my nose begins to run.

I lean forward, going from the balls of my feet to my knees, and lay my head on Nan’s lap. My arms band around her legs and the legs of the old chair, keeping me where I am.

Nan spent most of her time keeping Ma alive. We were never distant, but Fred and I were basically left on our own, unless one of the adults in our lives decided to impart wisdom on us.

Still, she’s my grandmother. The only grandparent I know. And despite all her faults, she is the glue that holds the rest of us together.

“Oh, Ricky,” she tsks, her weathered hand finding my head. “I know exactly how I’m going to leave this earth, and it was never going to be at the hands of boys who don’t know their mouth from their ass.”

The tears leave then, soaking the stupid pants she has six pairs of. Turquoise, with daisies printed on them. She would do the same with us, as kids. If we liked a pair of shoes or a shirt, she’d buy multiple, so that if one messes up, we’d have another ready.

“I can’t lose you just yet,” I whisper in Spanish. She was adamant about us knowing, even Ty-Ty. Until we were fluent enough for her liking, it was all she spoke.