Doors Blood In The Streets Novels & Stories

someone reminded him. Chase glanced down at me and snorted. "It's not like we're going to live any longer. It doesn't matter if we take her with us." He still saved me and draped the only jacket he had over my shoulders. He brought me back. Fearing that I might shatter his ego, I pretended to be as poor as him. I followed him into the criminal gray zone where gang activities were most frequent. It was a place without order, and violence and guns were the only laws of survival.

'Do liars eventually believe their own lies? "I wasn't gonna spell it out, but let's be real—I was too naive, too stupid. I know why you married me. My rare blood type. You needed a walking blood bank for Emma." His face drained of color. I didn't stop. "If you'd just asked, I would've donated. But you drugged me. Stole from me. "Do you even get how terrifying that was? I spent nights wondering if I'd fall asleep and never wake up—just another body you drained dry.

The metal door creaked as I pushed it open. The smell hit instantly: sweat, cheap alcohol, fresh blood. Music thudded from ancient speakers, mixed with shouts from the crowd surrounding a small ring in the center. A filthy arena, fenced in with wire mesh. And inside it—exactly as expected—Damon. Shirtless. Skin slick with sweat, and ugly tattoos he probably thought made him look more dangerous. His right fist still coated in someone else’s blood. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes burned with something wild and furious, something foreign to me.

"I've forgotten how it feels to just focus on school. To act like a normal teenager. People have their eyes on me 24/7. Waiting for me to slip up so they can pounce. I dare them to even dream of it. They're not born with the right brain if they lay a hand on me. I will return for vengeance. I'm going to be the one kid they can't get rid of. They shouldn't have gotten my attention. But that's not the point of this audio. If anyone is listening to this, I hope you've heard the audios before this one. If you haven't then this won't make any sense but listen anyways. I know where they're luring kids too. Where they kill them. Just a few blocks behind the playground is a warehouse. It's a hotspot

he said at length. "Okay," I was confused but I answered. What is in my blood? Why is my blood always on a topic? "Let's go," Adrian said. He went ahead of us so Shantelle and I followed him. “Wait a minute!” we were about to go out of the barrier when Mayor Cendric stopped us so we stopped. "Why, dad?" Shantelle asked him. "I just have something to say to Gabria," I frowned at his answer. "What is it?" I asked, curiously.

I hesitate at the door, then slip out of my jacket to strap on the shoulder holster with the Colt 1911 before slipping back into itand heading out. *** They call Doyers Street Murder Alley. It’s the perfect place for any killing you would want to commit under the cover of gang violence. One block long with a sharp ninety-degree angle in the middle, it runs from Pell Street to the Bowery at Chatham Square and is—according to the cops—the bloodiest intersection in America. There are probably two reasons for this. One is the sharp bend in the street whence comes the nickname, “The Bloody Angle,” a feature that lends itself well to gang ambushes. The other is a pedestrian tunnel that runs under

“Stay here,” he said. “Not a chance.” He didn’t argue. There wasn’t time. The front doors stood ajar, light spilling out onto the steps in a way that made my stomach drop. My father never left doors open. Not once, not in twenty-six years. We found Marco first — my father’s head of security, slumped against the wall of the foyer, blood soaking through his shirt from a wound in his shoulder. Alive, but barely, his breath coming in shallow, wet gasps.

“PD. Downtown.” Driver looked at me. Blood on my shirt. Dust. “You need a hospital, man.” “Just drive.” He drove.

Even the children of the city were mouthing his sentences like playground chants. “The three of them,” he had said. “Kroos, Marquez, and the Boss. Blood is their ink. We are the signatures.” The phrase became graffiti within hours. Sprayed on walls, under bridges, across cars in dripping black paint: Blood is their ink. News anchors who once smiled like mannequins now stared into cameras with grim eyes. They cut from Rico’s interview to shaky footage of past murders, drug busts, warehouse fires—suddenly re-interpreted as evidence of what he had confessed.