Pt. 2
Jamie Riley

Jamie got the door to his apartment open with one hand, the other still wrapped around Tino’s waist. Tino barely made a sound as Jamie steered him toward the couch, head slumped forward like it weighed too much. He lowered Tino onto the couch and immediately caught sight of the fresh blood seeping through the bandage and onto the cushion.

He ripped a towel from the hallway cabinet and folded it in half before slipping it under Tino’s side. He knew the damage control was completely useless, but the idea of blood soaking his furniture made his fingers twitch with the urge to keep moving, to clean and fix. He hated mess. Hated the smell of blood in closed spaces. But Tino was out cold and leaking all over everything, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. 

Hours passed in silence. Jamie didn’t sleep. He cleaned the bloodstains off the floor. Swapped out the towel under Tino once. Made coffee, but didn’t drink it. At some point, he stripped out of his stained clothes. The bathroom mirror caught the blood on his face and hair in harsh light, dried in streaks along his jaw, spattered faintly across his neck. He washed it off with cold water, scrubbing harder than necessary. A few shards of glass were still buried in the side of his palm, so he sat on the toilet lid and picked them out one by one with a pair of tweezers, before dropping them in the sink. When he finished, he wrapped the cuts in gauze and pulled on clean clothes. 

By the time the knock came at the door, Jamie was already on his feet. He checked the peephole, then unlocked it.

Vic took a few slow steps into the apartment, eyes scanning everything like he was assessing damage. His gaze landed on Tino, sprawled on the couch, pale and still except for the rise and fall of his chest.

“How’s he doing?” 

“He’ll live. Kiko stitched him up. Looks worse than it is.” 

Vic folded his arms, gaze pinned to Tino. “What the fuck happened?”

Jamie crossed his own, leaning against the kitchen counter. “We were on our way back. Some car came up behind us. Blacked-out windows, no plates. Next thing I know, it lit us up. Full spray.” 

Vic finally dragged his eyes away from Tino and looked at Jamie. “You think it was random?”

He shook his head. “No. Someone knew our route. Something was off from the start. At the warehouse, they wouldn’t shut up. They were testing us. They have no discipline. And the product? It’s not right. The color was off. I think they cut it.” 

He knew it wasn’t a light accusation. Calling out a partner crew for cutting product was enough to stir trouble, but accusing them of trying to gun down Cortez boys? That was a different level. The kind of thing that didn’t just cause tension, it started wars. “I think it was Southbound who shot at us.”

“Southbound just got their foot in the door. They wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“I’m telling you, the product was off. They handed us garbage and hoped we wouldn’t notice. Then we get ambushed on the way back? Come on, Vic.”

“You think they’d pull that move this early? You don’t think it’s more likely some random crew tried their luck?”

“It wasn’t random. They knew exactly when and where we were moving. That’s not luck. That’s info.”

Vic didn’t look entirely convinced. Jamie didn’t blame him. 

“Test it. They said it’s ninety-eight percent pure. It’s not gonna come back at ninety-eight. I’m not making this up. They handed us shit and then tried to cover it up with bullets.”

Vic didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room with slow steps, measuring the weight of what Jamie said. Jamie didn’t move from the counter. He could feel Vic doing the math behind him, weighing the cost of believing it. Or worse, the cost if it was true. 

“I’m gonna talk to Freddy. Make him set up a meeting with Southbound.” He nodded towards the couch. “He needs to be upright by then. I want you both there.” 

“When?” Jamie glanced at Tino.

“Two days, maybe three. If what you're saying is true, we’ll find out fast.” Vic took a step back toward the door, then added, like an afterthought, “And be smart about how you talk to Freddy. You throw accusations, you better back them up.”

The door clicked shut behind Vic. Jamie stood in the middle of the room, hands braced against the edge of the counter like he needed the contact to stay focused.

A meeting. Tino had to be on his feet by then. And if Jamie was wrong, if the numbers of the Black Ice in the busted-out car came back clean, he’d be the one looking paranoid. Like he couldn’t handle a job without spinning conspiracies. No one said it out loud, but the instant they started doubting your judgment, it was over. That’s how people got edged out. 

But he wasn’t wrong. He knew he wasn’t. He’d been doing this too long to mistake gut instinct for nerves. 

If Southbound really had cut the product, it meant one thing. Disrespect. They were testing boundaries. Seeing how far they could push before someone pushed back. Maybe they thought the Cortez Crew was getting soft. Or maybe they figured no one would notice if the numbers were close enough. Ninety-eight. Ninety-five. Ninety-two. Who was counting? Jamie was.

Cutting the product meant they didn’t care about the deal. About the structure. About the chain of trust that kept everything from blowing up. It meant they thought Cortez needed them more than they needed Cortez. And if that was true, if Dante was already playing games this early, it wasn’t just about a bad batch. It was about positioning. About power. They were trying to make a move.

Jamie pushed off the counter and started pacing. 

If Vic didn’t back him, if Freddy or Armando didn’t believe him, then what? He’d still have to show face at the meeting. Still stand across from Dante like none of it had happened. Like Tino hadn’t bled out in his seat, and Jamie hadn’t felt every second of it in his hands. Like he didn’t already have a list of names in his head and a bullet for each one.

The weight of it sat on his chest like a cinderblock. He opened the cabinet in the bathroom and grabbed the painkillers, the kind strong enough to knock out a grown man if he took too many, knowing the kind of pain Tino would wake up in. Next, he filled a bucket halfway with cold water and grabbed a clean rag. Something to wipe him down with if the fever kicked in, or to keep nearby in case he started throwing up. He brought everything back to the living room and set it down on the coffee table in a neat row. The water bottle came last. Label facing forward, cap loose.

Jamie stared at it all, then stepped back and rubbed his hands down the front of his jeans like the mess might come off that way. He moved through the apartment in silence. Checked the front door, twice. Turned the lock, jiggled the handle. Listened. Then crossed to the windows, peeling back the edge of the blinds just enough to scan the street. When he stepped back he went to the drawer behind the kitchen counter, and pulled the gun out. He checked the mag and made sure it was full. Chambered a round, clicked the safety off. Only then did he walk toward the bedroom. He cast one last glance at the couch before leaving the door cracked as he slipped inside, gun in hand. Just in case.