Buried Deep ✔️

Chapter One [Before School Business]

Two Years Later.

The house was small, with peeling white paint and a fenced in yard containing the most vicious Pitbull I'd ever seen. He jumped against the chain-link fence, growling and gnashing his teeth. I staggered back and instinctively reached for my gun. Churro could have warned me about his new security system.

Churro turned to me, raising an eyebrow. "A little jumpy, amigo?" he asked. He yelled something in Spanish at the dog, who turned to wander off in the yard.

My eyes flashed to his face after the dog moved a safe distance away. Churro started toward the house again. I moved my hand away from my gun and let out a deep breath, gripping the duffel bag tighter.

"Yeah, bro. I'm not used to this side of the neighborhood, you feel? We're risking a lot selling to yo' ass way over here in the west side," I responded, catching up to him before we entered a dark door with large, metal bars bolted on the outside.

Chicago's west side was known for three things: gang violence, drugs, and the projects. I hated delivering to this part of town, but, according to Cayden, Churro was one of our best suppliers. We provided him with amphetamines, and he provided us with crack. We needed Churro to be happy. It was essential.

The inside of the house was no more impressive. It was a trap house. Junk littered every inch of the floor. It was pushed to the side to form one small path between the front door and the other rooms in the house. Loud rap music blared through a speaker in a distant room, garbled with heavy bass.

We entered a dimly lit kitchen, where a smaller guy with a mask was hunched over the stove. A dark brown substance bubbled in a small pan over a flame.

The awful burning plastic scent of crack filled my nostrils. I covered my mouth, coughing into my arm. The guy swirled the substance as he mixed it with baking soda and an unfamiliar liquid. Churro had disappeared further into the house, leaving me with this stranger. The guy removed his mask and carried the small pan away from the stove, setting it on the counter. He dumped the crack onto a thin piece of aluminum foil before finally turning to look at me. He smiled, but he lacked all of his front teeth.

"Name is Matrix," he grunted, staring at me.

"Spencer."

He nodded in approval then replaced the mask over his face to continue cooking. I folded my arms across my chest and glanced down at my watch. Eleven-Thirty. Fuck. Cayden told me to meet Damen with the product by twelve.

I stepped across the room and leaned against the creaky door frame where Churro had disappeared. "Churro, bro. Can we hurry this up? I don't have all damn night."

"Chill, hombre. You seem tense." His thick accent carried around the corner.

My jaw locked and a grunt of annoyance escaped my chest. Tense was an understatement. Every time I was sent on a job to this part of town, my life was on the line. The Westside gang didn't like visitors, but I was willing to take the risk if it meant gaining Cayden's favor. He saved me, and I was going to prove my worth to him.

I stepped back from the door frame and tossed the duffel bag onto the small dining table in the corner. Churro returned and came over to stand beside me. His hands worked quickly to unzip the bag and then he peered at the merchandise inside.

"Three pounds?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"As far as I know, man. I'm just the delivery guy."

He appeared to be deep in thought. "And the delivery guy gets killed if the product isn't right."

Matrix tilted his head in our direction from his place in front of the stove. My hand gravitated toward my gun. My fingers traced along the cool metal. My muscles were tight as my eyes flickered between the two of them. Killing me would send a message of betrayal to the Southside, their loyal customers. But if they tried, I wouldn't go down easy.