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me?”
    â€œMcGriff,” Python hollers as he heads back toward the burning Impala. “Verify this shit. Are those niggas tagged?”
    An army of Disciples launch an immediate search of the two dead bodies that had been pulled from the wreckage. There are no flags, and none of the tats identify a gang affiliation.
    â€œThese muthafuckas are clean.”
    â€œWhat the fuck?” Python reaches their side and performs his own search. “You ain’t going to tell me that these niggas just decided to pop off down here by they damn selves.”
    â€œCould’ve been just an initiation stunt,” McGriff offers, shaking his head, his hand still clutching his chrome.
    Python lifts his foot back and delivers a hard, swift kick to one of the dead man’s head. It’s clear he’s hot. Heat rolls off of him in waves. “These muthafuckas had names. I want them, plus where they lived, who they people is—you feel me? And if we get any muthafuckin confirmation that Fat Ace’s ass had anything to with this shit here, we’re blazing this city up. Six poppin’ five droppin’ tonight, baby. You feel me?”
    â€œI feel you, man.” The men fist pound.
    With flames and black soot coiling up toward the darkening sky, Python turns his attention to the hundred deep surrounding him. His six-foot-five frame suddenly looks ten feet tall as he starts looking niggas one by one in the eye. “This shit here won’t stand. Niggas got us confused if they think they can roll down our shit, disrespecting Shotgun Row or any other block we got on lock.” His black eyes cast back up a ways, where his road dawg still lay in the street. “Somebody get something to cover my nigga up. Show some muthafuckin’ respect!”
    A few Queen Gs scramble to carry out the order.
    Python sniffs one time, but no tears drop from his eyes. “Niggas want to blast, we blast. We going to let the muthafuckas who are behind this shit know that they started a war! You feel me?”
    â€œHELL YEAH!”
    â€œWe will not rest until we earth every one of those grimy muthafuckas!”
    â€œHELL YEAH!”
    The crowd of blue and black cheer their agreement, and some even shoot off a few bullets into the air.
    I smile, loving how my man commanded everyone’s attention and respect. As I start to pump my fist into the air, that fiery pain surges back into my arm. How in the hell did I forget about that? I glance down and suck in a sharp breath as I notice my thin, bubble-gum-pink top darken with blood.
    â€œShit!” With my right hand still holding my nine, I use the tip of my pinky finger to pull up my short sleeve and reveal my gushing wound. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
    Despite the amped-up crowd, I catch Python’s attention. In a flash, he’s standing next to me, examining the wound. After a sec, one corner of his thick lips quirks up. “I can take care of this for you, Ma.”
    I try to smile back, but my arm feels like straight fire now, and as sure as my ass is black, I know every member of the Queen Gs is watching me, so the option of crying like a bitch is completely taken off the table. To clamp down on the pain, I grind my teeth together as Python leads me back through the crowd to Momma Peaches’s spot.
    â€œGet the fuck out of the way!” Python shouts, storming through the front door.
    Niggas part like his ass is Moses.
    We make a beeline to the kitchen.
    â€œLet me get my shit,” Momma Peaches says, returning my weapon back to its hiding spot before rushing for the first-aid kit.
    â€œI need some ice,” Python says calmly.
    Baby Thug, a short, thuggish shawty just barely kissing five feet with little mosquito bites for titties, quickly jerks open a couple of cabinets, grabs a large Glad bag, and then fills it with ice. Shortly after, the bag is pressed to my bullet wound.
    I hiss but still manage to fight back