The King I Can't Arrest

Chapter 4

Onyx

Desrianna Banks watches me like she's trying to crack my skull open and read what's inside.

That ain't happening.

That vault's been sealed for a long time, and nobody's getting the code.

I've seen too much.

Done too much.

Shit that'd put me right in a cell next to Quayvon.

And she'd be the first one smiling while she slapped cuffs on me.

Wouldn't matter what I did.

In her eyes, I'm already guilty by association.

I slide off the stool once Ms. Officer's done with me—or more like once I'm finished with her—letting her walk away first.

Her boots echo across the club floor as she heads over to get Amilio's statement next.

She still got the same fire in her eyes from the moment she recognized me.

Looking at me like she's already built the case.

Like I pulled the trigger myself.

Like I'd kill my own homeboy.

Maybe she really believes that.

Can't even blame her if she does.

Across the room, Javon's body gets rolled onto a stretcher.

Jason's voice cracks somewhere behind me.

The man's still crying.

Can't blame him either.

Javon was family.

Jace's blood.

I can't even imagine how he feels right now.

I lost my brother too, but that came from a dumb-ass decision he made trying to look harder than he really was.

Javon didn't go out like that.

He bled out right in front of us.

I watched the life leave his eyes.

Saw him take his final breath.

Death ain't new to me.

But this one hits different.

He was a good dude just trying to make a name for himself.

An hour ago we were drinking.

Laughing.

Talking about the collab we'd been planning for months.

He was hyped to hit the stage with me one day.

Talkin' tours.

Talkin' real money.

Somebody made sure that dream died tonight.

Now his three-year-old daughter's gotta grow up without her father.

That's f****d up.

But we'll make sure she's straight.

That's what family does.

My burner vibrates once in my pocket.

Then again.

I don't check it.

Not here.

Instead, my eyes drift back across the room.

Back to Officer Banks.

She's sitting across from Milli now, notebook in hand, brows drawn tight while she listens.

Damn.

She's fine as f**k.

Curves built like temptation.

Full lips.

Natural hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

And that attitude...

Like she ain't scared of nobody.

I like that s**t.

Too bad she's an opp.

Another vibration buzzes against my thigh.

Yeah.

I gotta get the f**k out of here.

Somebody's got information both me and the police need.

The only difference?

I'm gonna deal with it my way.

I push off the bar and head toward the exit.

Nobody stops me.

Cops are too busy taping off the dance floor and collecting stories.

Good.

I said everything I needed to say.

And if I didn't?

I got her number now.

My boys give me a quick nod as I pass.

They already know what's up.

We'll link up later after I handle what needs handling.

The air outside hits different.

Cooler.

Quieter.

But the tension's still there.

Red and blue lights bounce off the cars lining the street.

A small crowd lingers behind the barricade.

Phones out.

Everybody hungry for a headline.

Too bad they ain't getting one from me.

I already know my name gonna hit the blogs by sunrise anyway.

Javon didn't make it big yet.

But being tied to me and Nightstone Records?

His music'll probably go viral overnight.

Funny how death does that.

I ignore the cameras and start walking toward the black Lamborghini parked halfway down the block.

The driver's door unlocks with a quiet chirp when I get close.

I slide into the seat and shut the door.

Silence wraps around me instantly.

Just the low hum of the engine and distant sirens echoing down the street.

For a moment, I just sit there.

Trying to lock away what I saw tonight.

I ain't about to cry or nothing. My tears ran out a long time ago.

But losing my homeboy still cuts deep.

I can still hear the shots.

Still smell the blood.

Still see the fear in his eyes before it went dark.

After a second, I reach into my pocket and pull out the burner.

Three missed calls.

One text.

Unknown number.

I already know who it is.

The message is straight to the point.

Got him.

My jaw tightens.

I stare at the screen longer than I should.

Then another message drops.

Warehouse on Harbor Road.

Yeah.

That tracks.

Perfect place to hide.

Dump a weapon.

Or torch that gray Altima I watched speed off from the back of the club through the bathroom window.

Good thing I made the call before I stepped back into that club.

I pull away from the curb.

The Lamborghini growls beneath me, smooth and powerful—just the way I like it.

Across the street, a couple people lift their phones when they see the car.

Thankfully, my windows are tinted enough nobody can see who's inside.

I take a deep breath, trying to convince myself everything's normal.

Like my boy ain't just bled out on the floor of a club.

Like I ain't already on my way to find the man who did it.

Police got their way of handling things.

Questions.

Reports.

Investigations that take too damn long.

Trials that drag even longer.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

Because whoever pulled that trigger made one mistake.

They missed me.

And that means I'm still here.

Still breathing.

Still driving straight to the last place they're ever gonna see.

Harbor ain't far.

Ten minutes, maybe less.

Long enough for the anger in my chest to settle into something sharper.

More useful.

I pop the glove compartment one-handed.

The inside light flickers on, casting a dull glow over the contents inside.

Registration.

Insurance.

And the Glock resting where I left it.

Good.

I shut the compartment and keep my eyes on the road.

Streetlights flash across the windshield as the city starts thinning out around me.

Fewer cars.

More warehouses.

More darkness.

Exactly the kind of place people run when they think nobody's gonna catch their ass.

By the time I turn onto the empty industrial road leading toward the warehouse district, grief ain't what's driving me anymore.

Now it's something colder.

Something final.

Revenge.