AMNIJA

11. ✐ RICOCHET

LASHUN MEECH MATHESON
ʟᴀꜱʜᴜɴ

Shit could get ugly in a second. I'm not the type of nigga to hesitate 'cause of time or place. I'll empty a round on a waste in broad daylight — crowd or not.

I spotted one of Buju's cronies. The bwoy Sheldon.

In other parts of the world, January's the coldest month. But in Jamaica? Everybody and dem madda know say it was a blazing, sun wicked, sweat nonstop and this fool had on a black hoodie, in the middle of a beach party.

Strange.

I kept my hand on my gun.

He was here to kill.

He grabbed a drink, leaned up by the bar, chatting with a next youth like it was nothing. Hmm...

My spirit told me to move.

I brought the cup to my lips and down the rest of vodka, then I disappeared through the crowd.

If Sheldon stepped out, it wouldn't be no coincidence.

And me nuh believe inna coincidence.

Shot aguh light him up if him ever dare come out yah.

Me never wah do nutt'n stupid inna the party, and kill innocent people. I preferred if it went down in the parking lot.

Less people. They'll have time to run.

I load the clip, scanning my surroundings. Then I saw him. I held composure, he had two guns out, clearly searching for me. I raised my 9mm before he could look in my direction, but someone fired first, hitting me in my shoulder.

Shittttt!

I pointed at him and fired, his body dropped, head cracked open, marrow splashing out. No different from a watermelon. Now emptying the entire clip in Don.

"Dead bwoy," I shouted, and jumped in my Lexus. Grateful no one saw m—

I spoke too soon.

A girl was sprinting away. Her ass holding her back. Anger buzzed through me. The way she was running, she clearly was an informer. I loaded the clip again, jumped up, chasing after her.