Page 102 of Rather: The Therapist

“Six.”

Six dead men, I thought, headed for my closet. Dead on my arrival.

“Stay put.”

“You already know I am. We’re at Orchid.”

I ended the call. There was no time to linger on the line. Kofi was a sitting duck. Though I knew he could handle his own, the influence of alcohol and whatever drugs were in his system would delay his reaction, have his aim off, and diminish his ability to move as he should.

Being next to niggas you owed bullets to the dome was enough to tell me he wasn’t in his right mind. It was law–shoot first and ask questions never. He’d broken that one and a few others.

Black tank.

Black hoodie.

Black skully.

Black sweats.

Black socks.

Black shoes.

Black Glock.

I stepped out of the closet with vengeance on my mind. If Kofi wasn’t going to get his, then I was. I’d rather put them niggas in the dirt before they had my entire family dressed in their Sunday’s best crying over Kofi’s casket.

Instead of the Phantom, I opted for the Kia underneath the tarp in my garage with license plates belonging to absolutely no one. It was a dramatic downgrade from what I was accustomed to, but the second I slid into the driver seat, I could smell the blood that would be shed tonight. It was more of the same each time I started the engine and silence followed.

No music.

No phone.

It was just me, my thoughts, and the Glock I would be ditching before the night’s end. It wasn’t my preferred weapon but I couldn’t deny its ability to bark or the bite it packed when I needed a job done with haste. It was easy to handle, compact enough for concealment, and would leave no stone unturned.

As long as my aim was good, then it would leave no witnesses. And, for me, good was an insult. My aim was impeccable. Flawless. Every time I fired, bullets were lodged in something, in someone. It was inevitable.

Orchid was thirty-five minutes away from my home in Mt. Clarke. For twenty-six of them I didn’t make a peep. The descent required silence. I was headed to my depths where I exchanged my sanity for savagery. It was necessary for the task at hand.

Killing a man was as easy for me as snapping a finger, but it demanded a very specific mindset. In order for me to sleep peacefully when I returned home, its presence wasn’t up for discussion. I dug deep, awakening the nigga required for the job.

He was thoughtless. Ruthless. Heartless. Careless. Fearless. And, lacked limits. Lacked logic. Lacked self-control. Lacked a reservation for life. He ended things. People. Empires. Operations.

“Priest,” Ice picked up on the second ring.

“Silk holler at you?”

“Yeah. He called.”

“Kill their feed in eight. I’ll be there in nine, in the door in eleven.”

“I’m on it.”

“Ice.”

“What’s up, Boss?”

“Every camera. I need them blind.”

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