Page 13 of Heavy Is The Crown

Jay-1 smirked, tossing a few bills on the table. “Nah, just business.”

That word could mean anything, and Kenyatta didn’t like any of the possibilities.

**********

The BMW cut through the city, moving too fast for a regular night out.

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. “Alright, Jay-1. What the fuck is this?”

Jay-1’s knuckles flexed on the wheel. “A quick stop. In and out.”

Kenyatta scoffed. “Ain’t no such thing as ‘quick’ when you moving like this.”

Jay-1 chuckled. “Bruh, why you acting like I’m about to throw you into some wild shit?”

Kenyatta side-eyed him. “Because you are.”

Jay-1 sighed, finally glancing over. “Look, I just gotta pick up something from my guy. That’s it. No extra shit, no drama. Just sit tight, keep the engine running.”

Kenyatta felt it before he knew it.

That shift in the air. The sudden drop in his stomach. The way Jay-1’s whole demeanor changed was too casual, too calm. Like he was trying too hard to make shit feel normal. This felt too familiar. This felt like the same bullshit that got him locked up before.

“I ain’t with it,” Kenyatta said firmly, his voice low but leaving no room for argument. “Take me back to my mama’s.”

Jay-1 scoffed, his grip on the wheel tightening. “Man, stop tripping. You ain’t gotta do nothing. Just be a passenger.”

Kenyatta knew better. The passenger always caught time too.

The BMW glided through the dark streets, leaving the glow of the Red District behind. The neon lights faded into the cold, desolate stretch of the city’s industrial zone—where only bad deals and worse decisions happened.

Kenyatta’s chest tightened.

“Nah, hell nah.” His head shook before the car even rolled to a stop. “This ain’t no pick-up.”

Jay-1 shot him a look, a smirk pulling at his lips, but his eyes were serious.

“Bruh, calm down.” That was all he said. There was nothing to explain.

They pulled up behind a black Escalade, its tinted windows as dark as the alley behind it. The headlights from the Beamer illuminated the scene in jagged flashes, revealing the side of an old warehouse with boarded-up windows and rusted metal doors.

A place where shit went wrong, and nobody ever saw a damn thing.

Then, movement.

The Escalade’s doors swung open, and two masked men stepped out.

One gripped a duffle bag, its weight dragging his arm slightly. The other one’s hand stayed inside his jacket.

Gun.

Kenyatta’s pulse hammered against his ribs. This wasn’t right. The air was too still. The street was too quiet. This wasn’t just business: this was a fucking trap.

Kenyatta’s gut screamed at him to move, to get the fuck out of there. “Jay-1, what the fuck—”

Then all hell broke loose.

Gunfire erupted, ripping through the air. Glass shattered. The BMW’s windshield exploded, spiderweb cracks spreading fast.

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