Jason Knee's Arc

Chapter 9 of 2

The siege held through the night. Jason's men ringed the panic room door while the compound smoked around them. By dawn the yard was quiet. Then Bobby Lee crossed it, and seventy MopBoyz came behind him. "Marcus is cooked in that box," Bobby said. He stopped close, too close. "So the place is ours now. That was the deal." His buzz cut shone with sweat. His tattooed arms hung loose, ready. Jason had beaten this man once and spared him. Bobby had not forgotten either part. "He's still breathing," Jason said. "I owe him a bullet first." "You owe me a compound." Bobby raised his voice so his crew could hear. "We breached the kitchen. We bled for this gate. Hand it over." The MopBoyz spread out across the yard. Ink stepped to Jason's shoulder, skinny and tight-jawed, his gun low. Pep flicked his dead cigarette and reached for his waistband. Three hundred Saints stood further back, but here at the door it was seventy against a handful. Jason felt the math turn against him. "Bobby," Jason said. "Walk it back." Bobby grinned and lifted his gun. The front gate groaned. Men turned. A huge black man came through it, short dreads hanging over his face, a gold chain swinging on his chest. John Dread Spent. Marcus's underboss. He had been out in the city when the compound fell, and now he came home to the ruin of it. He did not shout. He walked straight at Bobby Lee. "You sold us," he said. His voice was low and flat. "You ran Marcus's product. Then you brought them to the door." Bobby swung his gun toward the new threat. He was slow. John Dread Spent fired twice into his chest. Bobby Lee dropped in the yard, buzz cut in the dirt, dead before he folded. The MopBoyz froze. Their leader was gone. John Dread Spent turned on them, and Ink raised his gun, and the Saints surged up behind Jason. Caught between two forces, the seventy wavered. John Dread Spent fired again, fast, into the knot of them. His rounds cracked across the yard. Jason dropped behind the broken fountain and returned fire. One of his shots caught the big man in the throat. John Dread Spent staggered, hand at his neck, blood running past the gold chain. He fell beside Bobby and did not move. Smoke drifted off the guns. Both leaders lay dead in the dirt. The seventy MopBoyz stood with no one to follow and three hundred Saints staring them down. One by one they lowered their guns. Jason stood. The compound was clear. The deal that had cost him a rival was buried in the yard with the man it was made with. He pressed his palm flat on the cold steel door. Marcus was still inside, still breathing. "Ink," Jason said. "Get me something to cut this open."