The DEA agent sat in the director's office, resignation letter in hand. His wife stood beside him, arms crossed, her frustration palpable as she stared down the director. The room was tense, filled with the weight of everything he had gone through—the massacre, the dead bodies, the narrow escape. He couldn't shake the images. His wife's anger wasn't just about the danger he had been in; it was about the toll it was taking on him mentally, how he was barely the same person anymore.
The director looked over the resignation letter and shook his head, pushing it back toward the agent. "I can't accept this. Not yet."
The agent sighed, exhausted. "It's too much, sir. I can't keep doing this, not after what happened."
"You're one of the best we've got," the director said firmly. "Forty-nine arrests in a single month. Your work has been vital to taking down some of the most dangerous players in this game. We're going to compensate you fully for what happened, and we're going to give you time, but I can't let you walk away now."
His wife's eyes flashed, clearly unimpressed. "Compensate him? That's all you have to say? He nearly died out there."
"I understand your frustration," the director replied, keeping his tone steady. "But your husband's skill set is irreplaceable. I'm asking for patience—time to heal—but I'm not willing to lose him. We'll provide any support necessary, therapy, leave, anything. Just... think about it."
The agent stared at the floor, conflicted. He didn't want to give up, but the weight of it all was suffocating. His decision lingered in the air, unresolved.
Tyrone's fingers gripped the steering wheel of the black Range Rover, his gaze flicking between the road and Jamal beside him, who was casually recounting an old memory from when they first started out. The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows over the streets, but the warmth inside the car felt like a cocoon. Tyrone had a surprise for Jamal, something big. They had been through too much together, and it was finally time to show his appreciation—a mansion and a new car.
"Man, you remember that time at Lil' Benny's spot? When you tried to hustle those fools and—" Jamal couldn't even finish the sentence before both of them burst out laughing, their deep, raspy chuckles filling the car. Tyrone wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head.
"Yeah, man. And you saved my ass by grabbing the cash when they turned around. That was a close one." Tyrone chuckled, his voice warm, as they slowed down for a red light.
As they sat there, the sound of the city alive around them, Tyrone glanced in the side mirror. A motorcycle was creeping up next to them, its engine low and humming. The rider wore all black, face obscured by a helmet, his movements slow and deliberate. Nothing unusual, but something about it set Tyrone on edge.
Jamal, completely oblivious, was still laughing about the old times, his words slurring as he leaned back, relaxed. Tyrone's heart started to race, though he couldn't put his finger on why. The motorcycle pulled up just inches away from the passenger window, the rider now directly in their line of sight.
Tyrone glanced over at Jamal, a sinking feeling crawling into his gut. Jamal, still smiling, turned to his window when he heard a light tap—a tap that shattered the moment. His eyes widened, registering the barrel of an Uzi pressed up against the glass, pointed right at his face. There was no time to react, no time to shout or grab the gun hidden under the seat.
The gunfire erupted like thunder, the rapid burst of bullets deafening in the confined space. Tyrone instinctively ducked, his hands flying up to shield his face as the windshield and side windows exploded into shards of glass. Jamal's body jerked violently in the passenger seat as bullets tore into him, the life draining out of him before Tyrone's eyes.
Blood splattered everywhere—on the dashboard, the seats, the ceiling—painting the once pristine interior of the car in crimson. Tyrone's heart stopped, his mind went blank. He couldn't believe what was happening. His right-hand man, his brother, the one who had stood beside him through every fight, every deal, every war, was being ripped away in a matter of seconds.
"NOOOO!" Tyrone screamed, his voice filled with raw, primal agony. His hand shot toward the center console, fumbling for his Glock. But his fingers were shaking, useless. It didn't matter now. The motorcyclist, his job done, peeled off into the night, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived.
Tyrone's hands finally found the gun, but it was too late. Jamal slumped against the seat, his head tilted unnaturally to the side, blood running down his chest in rivers. Tyrone reached over, shaking him, desperate to get a response, to see any sign of life. But there was none.
"Come on, man, wake up," Tyrone whispered through tears, his voice trembling. "Wake up, bro, don't do this to me. Not you."
The car sat idle at the intersection, the light turning green, then red again as Tyrone sobbed, holding his friend's lifeless body. People in nearby cars honked, oblivious to the horror that had just unfolded.
Tyrone's world began to collapse in on itself. Jamal was more than just a partner—he was family, someone who had fought with him, planned with him, dreamed with him. And now, all of that was gone in a spray of bullets. The surprise Tyrone had planned—the house, the car—it all felt meaningless now.
As the reality of what had happened started to sink in, a cold, dark anger replaced the sorrow. Tyrone's tears dried, his eyes hardening with rage. Whoever was responsible for this would pay. They didn't just take Jamal's life—they took Tyrone's heart.
His phone buzzed, but Tyrone ignored it. He had no time for calls now, no time for anything except vengeance. His empire, his rise to power—it all suddenly meant nothing compared to this moment. Nothing mattered anymore but retribution.
Jamal would not die in vain. Tyrone's mind raced with thoughts of revenge, blood for blood, until there was nothing left but a smoldering desire to destroy whoever was behind this. He wasn't going to stop until they were dead. All of them.