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Book: King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 by Maurice Broaddus
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Authors: Maurice Broaddus
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straight?"
"Yeah, we cool."
"Niggas will try to get at you all the time. Niggas take kindness for weakness. You have to be able to see the big picture, not just your next move. It's time to finesse this shit."
CHAPTER FOUR
Broyn DeForest drove with the care of a driver's education student under final review. The stretch of I-65 connecting Chicago and Indianapolis was the easiest part of the drive and was so familiar to him by now, he could make the run with his eyes closed. He set his nondescript white Toyota Corolla – sometimes a gray Honda Accord – on cruise control at exactly the speed limit and stayed in the right-hand lane for the entire trip. Once he was within a city, he grew more nervous. Being so conscious of using his turn signals and not weaving in and out of the constant stop and go of traffic went against his natural rhythm of impatient driving. No, today he was on the clock. Three kilos of raw product sat in the trunk. It might as well have been a beating heart under some floorboards the way it occupied his conscience.
It used to be that Broyn made this run barely once a quarter and that was usually only for a kilo. Colvin's operation worked in the shadow of Night and Dred, between the cracks of their respective territories. He'd carved out such a nice niche for himself, many feared that he would draw the attention of either of them and be swallowed up whole. Then two things happened. One, Night's operation fell apart seemingly overnight as news of his demise spread quickly along the street. At the same time Dred took a step back. The streets bubbled with rumors from Dred turning federal witness to Night getting capped, to the bizarre involving voodoo or some shit. Or maybe not so bizarre, considering the second thing. Colvin recruited some new… muscle.
Colvin had stepped up the game.
These days Broyn made the run twice a month and was told to be prepared to switch to weekly soon. Now, it wasn't simply a matter of pick up and drop off, but deliveries to be made. The first exchange was simple enough. Simple, if one didn't mind a trip to Gary, Indiana. Broyn would sooner deal direct with some of the dons in Chicago rather than have to stop in Gary. The city still competed to be the murder capital of the country. From downtown, he made his way to the usual spot Colvin had him do business from toward the main gate of the steel mill. Over on Broadway, north of Fourth, there was an abandoned train station on the right between two railroad overpasses. The sign on its front pillar read "No Parking. Cabs Only." though few cars ventured its way. A desolate, lonely place, an echo of ache within the city, the once-magnificent showpiece had been reduced to a home for pigeons and vagrants. The building was a mausoleum of silence and decay. Secluded enough for a simple transaction.
Broyn would leave a taped-down grocery bag filled with cash under his seat and the trunk of his car popped open. He'd step out and make small talk with his contact, Myron Smalls, who folks called "Stink." Broyn thought that – as fucked up as his own name was, with his mother trying to spell "Brian" some unique way – he couldn't go through life being called "Stink." They'd both watch for police. All Broyn had to do was get back in the car: the money would be gone and the product in the trunk. He didn't have to check. Then it was an uncomplicated drive back to Indianapolis. With Colvin positioning himself as a supplier now, Broyn made the reconnect, dropped off one kilo to another crew – though he hated dealing with the Treize – and then took the rest to a cutting house where it could be whacked and packaged and distributed. A smooth operation, all things considered.
His hair in twists, a scraggily beard jutted off his chin, a trail of razor bumps dotted down his face. Turning onto Lafayette Road heading toward Georgetown Road, already known as the drug corridor of the west side of
"Yeah, we cool."
"Niggas will try to get at you all the time. Niggas take kindness for weakness. You have to be able to see the big picture, not just your next move. It's time to finesse this shit."
CHAPTER FOUR
Broyn DeForest drove with the care of a driver's education student under final review. The stretch of I-65 connecting Chicago and Indianapolis was the easiest part of the drive and was so familiar to him by now, he could make the run with his eyes closed. He set his nondescript white Toyota Corolla – sometimes a gray Honda Accord – on cruise control at exactly the speed limit and stayed in the right-hand lane for the entire trip. Once he was within a city, he grew more nervous. Being so conscious of using his turn signals and not weaving in and out of the constant stop and go of traffic went against his natural rhythm of impatient driving. No, today he was on the clock. Three kilos of raw product sat in the trunk. It might as well have been a beating heart under some floorboards the way it occupied his conscience.
It used to be that Broyn made this run barely once a quarter and that was usually only for a kilo. Colvin's operation worked in the shadow of Night and Dred, between the cracks of their respective territories. He'd carved out such a nice niche for himself, many feared that he would draw the attention of either of them and be swallowed up whole. Then two things happened. One, Night's operation fell apart seemingly overnight as news of his demise spread quickly along the street. At the same time Dred took a step back. The streets bubbled with rumors from Dred turning federal witness to Night getting capped, to the bizarre involving voodoo or some shit. Or maybe not so bizarre, considering the second thing. Colvin recruited some new… muscle.
Colvin had stepped up the game.
These days Broyn made the run twice a month and was told to be prepared to switch to weekly soon. Now, it wasn't simply a matter of pick up and drop off, but deliveries to be made. The first exchange was simple enough. Simple, if one didn't mind a trip to Gary, Indiana. Broyn would sooner deal direct with some of the dons in Chicago rather than have to stop in Gary. The city still competed to be the murder capital of the country. From downtown, he made his way to the usual spot Colvin had him do business from toward the main gate of the steel mill. Over on Broadway, north of Fourth, there was an abandoned train station on the right between two railroad overpasses. The sign on its front pillar read "No Parking. Cabs Only." though few cars ventured its way. A desolate, lonely place, an echo of ache within the city, the once-magnificent showpiece had been reduced to a home for pigeons and vagrants. The building was a mausoleum of silence and decay. Secluded enough for a simple transaction.
Broyn would leave a taped-down grocery bag filled with cash under his seat and the trunk of his car popped open. He'd step out and make small talk with his contact, Myron Smalls, who folks called "Stink." Broyn thought that – as fucked up as his own name was, with his mother trying to spell "Brian" some unique way – he couldn't go through life being called "Stink." They'd both watch for police. All Broyn had to do was get back in the car: the money would be gone and the product in the trunk. He didn't have to check. Then it was an uncomplicated drive back to Indianapolis. With Colvin positioning himself as a supplier now, Broyn made the reconnect, dropped off one kilo to another crew – though he hated dealing with the Treize – and then took the rest to a cutting house where it could be whacked and packaged and distributed. A smooth operation, all things considered.
His hair in twists, a scraggily beard jutted off his chin, a trail of razor bumps dotted down his face. Turning onto Lafayette Road heading toward Georgetown Road, already known as the drug corridor of the west side of
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