The smell of gun smoke and bleach still lingered in the air while Shocka’s body slumped sideways in the chair like a broken puppet. Raquel was staring at the floor, hands shaking — not from fear, but from adrenaline and the aftertaste of death lingering in her throat.
Moms didn’t say another word.
She just stepped over Shocka’s leg like it was a spilled grocery bag and started locking down the house.
“Y’all pack lightweight,” she said. “Only what you need. We movin’ quiet, movin’ quick.”
I nodded and jogged toward my room, Raquel following behind me. When I shut the door, she finally exhaled the breath she’d been holding since the gun went off.
“DeJu’re…” she whispered.
Her eyes were trembling but focused.
“You really killed him like it was nothin’.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the Glock down with a towel.
“Because he came for me, ma. Came for my moms. And he damn sure would’ve came for you.”
She sat beside me, knees touching mine.
“Are we really goin’ to Jamaica?”
“Yeah,” I said, tossing the towel aside.
“Moms ain’t never moved like this unless death is guaranteed.”
Raquel leaned against my shoulder, and for a moment the world got quiet — too quiet — like the air was holding secrets.
“Baby… I’m comin’ with you.”
I turned toward her.
“Ma, the Islands ain’t no Oakland run. This ain’t a schoolyard shootout. These niggas got militias, witch doctors, blood oaths… real death shit.”
She placed her hand on my face, soft but firm.
“And you my real one. I’m ridin’. I don’t care if it’s California, Kingston, or hell itself.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Then pack.”
---
By the time we came back into the living room, moms had already wrapped Shocka’s body in a black tarp, dragging him toward the garage like it was laundry day.
“You two slow as hell,” she said. “I already called Buddy Mclean. He sendin’ a cleanup crew.”
“Mama…”
I stepped beside her.
“What’s the plan?”
She stood up straight, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“The plan is survival, baby. We takin’ the three A.M. red-eye out of SFO. Buddy already booked rooms for us in New Kingston.”
Raquel blinked.
“We’rent stayin’ with family out there?”
Moms scoffed like she almost laughed.
“Family? The only family he had out there is the niggah in the tarp — and the ones who wanna put bullets in us.”
I nodded slowly, absorbing it all.
“So who’s General Krow?”
Moms froze, just for a second.
The name did something to her.
Her jaw locked tight, eyes sharpening like knives.
“General Krow is the man your father feared,” she said.
“Feared enough to steal from him. Feared enough to die for it. And he’s the reason we flyin’ out.”
I crossed my arms.
“What did pops steal?”
Moms looked at me with a face that wasn’t scared, but serious — deadly serious.
“Baby… your father stole five million dollars in washed Island bills and a black book full of names and coordinates of cartel shipments across the entire Caribbean.”
She pulled a folded envelope from her robe pocket.
“And he mailed this to me the night before he died.”
She handed it to me gently.
My hands shook a little as I opened it. Inside was a single Polaroid picture: my pops standing on the deck of a boat, holding a black leather notebook, smiling like he just won the world.
Raquel leaned over my shoulder.
“That the book people dyin’ over?”
Moms nodded slowly.
“That book got the power to control whole islands. Whoever holds it controls money routes, ports, shipments — everything. Krow wants it back. And the whole Island know your father’s son is old enough to be a threat.”
I swallowed hard.
“So he wants to kill me.”
“No baby,” moms said.
“He wants to use you.”
---
We were silent for a moment — until a loud knock hit the front door.
Once.
Twice.
Three slow, heavy bangs.
Raquel stiffened. I reached for my vest.
Moms raised her MAC-11 and tilted her chin toward the hallway.
“Bathroom. Both of you.”
I pulled Raquel close and slid her toward the hallway quietly.
The knocking came again — louder this time.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Moms shouted:
“WHO IS IT?”
A calm male voice answered:
“Déjà… open the door.
We need to talk.”
Her eyes widened — not in fear, but rage.
“Fuck no. State your name or get swiss-cheesed.”
A pause.
Then:
“It’s Buddy. I brought your ride to the airport.”
Moms lowered the MAC-11 an inch, still not fully trusting.
“Buddy… why you knockin’ like the feds?”
No answer.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Buddy… say something only you would say.”
A beat.
Then Buddy’s voice shifted slightly — the tone cold, flat.
“You fucked up lettin’ Shocka call from your phone.
General Krow knows exactly where you are.”
My blood turned to ice.
Moms’ eyes went wide.
She whispered one word:
“RUN.”
The windows shattered.
Automatic gunfire ripped through the living room.
And the whole house exploded into chaos.
YOU ARE READING
Deju're
Non-FictionDeju're is a want for nothing Oakland,Ca kid that was raised by a female drug lord which is his mother Déjà who has been raised in the Oakland hills all her life. he goes to fresno,Ca to visit his cousin and things start to unravel about his dads mu...
