Ford
I LURK IN THE SHADOWS.
When meeting up with enemies, you either want to be early or promptly on time. Never late. If you're late, it invites the element of surprise for your opponent because they can scour the vicinity and plan an ambush for when you turn up. I learnt long ago to never be late, and I vowed to never be late again. I've made good on that promise, and today is no fucking exception.
Huntington's Street boasts an alleyway to break up a working-class community more commonly exploited to facilitate drug deals and beating the shit out of someone privately because no one fucking dares to walk down it if they have any common sense about them. Over the years, mentions of Red Alert has riddled the gossip attributed to the alleyway, and though it's absolutely truthful, there can't be any concrete validation without exposing details of our legacy. And now the alleyway is seldom used except for the aforementioned reasons, and because I arrive at half past eight—thirty minutes early—I've ensured the absence of any drug deals or assaults while present tonight.
As I lean against the wall roughly two thirds submerged into the alleyway, I check my phone. There are still six minutes until the hour which means that I shouldn't be waiting too much longer.
Dropping my phone back into my pocket, I tilt my head back against the cold wall, shoving my hands into my pockets of my coal jacket. Immediately my fingers clutch the small pocketknife I have stored, and I've long since been able to ignore the coldness of gun metal pressed against my stomach, nestled just in my waistband. I don't want to use either weapon, but it's better to come equipped than without, though I know my fists will serve as enough protection for me due to my boxing abilities.
There are two rules: never arrive late, and always bring some type of protection, weaponry or bribery wager.
As the seconds tick on, I rise my gaze to meet the roof of the house behind me that blocks out the moon from my view, immersing my entire body in darkness. The stars aren't present because there's too much streetlight polluting the darkness on the roads. Since arriving, that's all I've been doing; gazing up at the sky and guaranteeing the absence of any other body until Frederick, Angus, Otis and Ryker arrive, wager with me, and then vacate the premises.
At two minutes to nine, they arrive.
I push myself off from the wall, hands still deep in my pockets, one clutched around the pocketknife. Pugnacious, I stand arrogantly in front of them, legs spread just enough for a more balanced stance, gaze flickering across all of them in turn to ensure I'll witness any sudden movements as quickly as possible to accelerate a faster reaction time from me. Unable to ascertain whether any of them are packing heat, I don't loosen my clutch on the pocketknife.
"You summoned, master," Frederick, of Mexican heritage, says emotionlessly. Characteristically, he's ceaselessly the first one to speak of his group.
"I don't want to start something here. William was in the wrong."
With thick dark brows above gunmetal grey eyes and ashaggy mane of dark auburn hair, Angus scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest as his shirt rises on the waistband of his jeans, confirming that he's not packing heat. He shakes his head, glancing away fleetingly before returning my piercing gaze.
"William is part of your crew and you're all Red Alert. Your status won't protect you now. It's four against one."
"I'm not here to pick a fight, and you're all fucking morons unless you reciprocate it." I pause. "We're here to talk some business. You killed Iesha Metcalf?"
Frederick shakes his head. "No. Not her. Just someone else."
That fucks up my theories, but I refuse to warrant it to show across my expression. Remaining impassive, I ask, "Who was the chick you killed, then?"
