Glass didn't just break —
it exploded inward like a bomb of glittering knives.
The first burst of gunfire ripped across the living room walls, shredding the portrait of my pops, tearing through the marble counters, sparks jumping off metal like fireworks.
Moms dove behind the kitchen island, sliding on her hip with the MAC-11 already barking flames.
BRRRT—BRRRT—BRRRT!
Shells clattered everywhere.
I grabbed Raquel's hand and yanked her into the hallway just as bullets tore through the bathroom door like it was wet paper.
"DOWN!" I yelled.
We hit the floor hard, skidding across polished wood as drywall dust rained over us like gray snow.
My ears were ringing, but I could still hear the heavy stomp of boots entering the house — methodical, trained, not Oakland street niggas.
These were soldiers.
Island soldiers.
Raquel grabbed my arm, eyes wide, tears forming not from fear but from the gunpowder stinging her eyes.
"Baby... we gotta help your moms!"
I peeked around the corner — and the sight punched breath out my lungs.
Two masked men in full tactical vests were stepping through the broken window frame, rifles raised, lasers slicing through the room like red snakes.
Moms was crouched behind the island, reloading, jaw clenched, her robe splashed with Shocka's dried blood and now specks of marble dust.
She wasn't scared.
She was pissed.
One of the soldiers turned toward her position—
I fired.
The .40 cracked so loud my ears screamed.
The bullet caught the soldier right under the jaw, snapping his head back with a spray of red mist as he crumpled onto the dining table, flipping it with his dead weight.
Raquel gasped at how fast it happened.
The second soldier spun toward the sound of my shot—
But moms was faster.
BRRRRRTTTTTTTTT—
Her MAC-11 sang a metallic song of murder, stitching his chest with a full line of holes. He did a half-turn before falling like a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence hit for half a second—
then more boots thundered outside.
Raquel breathed,
"They're surrounding the house..."
Moms shouted, "MOVE TO THE GARAGE! NOW!"
We sprinted down the hallway, dodging broken wood, shattered picture frames, and the sharp smell of gunpowder thick in the air.
When we reached the garage door, moms slammed her palm against the code panel.
The metal door groaned upward—
revealing three more men in black tactical suits storming up the driveway.
"Mama—!" I yelled.
"BACK!" she snapped.
She threw a flash grenade from her robe pocket.
I didn't even know she carried one.
It landed between the men and detonated with a sound like lightning punching concrete.
BOOOOM!
A burst of white light swallowed everything.
The men screamed, grabbing their faces, stumbling blindly.
Moms didn't waste a second.
She stitched them with three clean bursts.
All bodies dropped.
Smoke drifted across the driveway like a low fog.
Raquel covered her mouth, eyes watering from the concussive blast.
I stared at moms.
Her breathing was steady. Controlled.
Like she'd done this a thousand times.
"Mama..."
My voice cracked.
"What the hell is going on? Why they hittin' us like this?"
She pointed at the SUV parked backed-in, trunk open, bags already inside.
"General Krow sent a recon kill squad. Means he's serious. Means we leave NOW."
"But Buddy—" Raquel began.
"Buddy ain't Buddy," moms cut in sharply.
"That wasn't his voice. They spoofed it."
A chill spread through my bones.
They'd planned this.
They'd been watching.
Listening.
And they waited until Shocka died to move.
Raquel grabbed my vest, helping me secure the strap.
Her hands were shaking.
Moms climbed into the driver seat, hunched low.
"Get in the back! Keep yo' heads DOWN!"
We piled in.
The engine roared alive.
Outside, more shadows were moving at the edge of the property — dark silhouettes slipping between hedges, approaching fast.
"Mama GO!"
She slammed the gas.
The SUV fishtailed out of the driveway, tires screaming as we tore down the hill.
A rain of bullets followed us, hitting the rear windshield, shattering it into a spiderweb of cracks. Glass hit the back seat like sharp hail.
Raquel ducked into my chest, trembling.
"I got you," I whispered.
"I ain't lettin' you die here."
Moms drifted the SUV around a sharp turn so hard we slid sideways, seatbelts digging into our shoulders.
In the rearview mirror, two black trucks were speeding after us — headlights cutting through the night like twin hunting eyes.
Moms hit the freeway ramp doing sixty.
"They not stoppin'..." I said.
"They not supposed to," she replied.
Raquel looked up at me.
"What does that mean?"
Moms' jaw tightened.
"It means this war already started.
And baby...
We the ones they scared of."
Right then, the pursuing trucks turned their headlights off.
Black ships in the dark.
Coming fast.
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...
