📍Top Lane, Warwick Avenue
Big Yard

DARIO

Gun oil has a scent you never forget.

It clings to your fingers, settles under your nails, and seeps into your fucking clothes like smoke.

I wash my hands three times, scrubbing until my skin feels raw, but the smell is still there, lurking beneath the cheap soap. I rub my palms together harder, as if I can scrape away the evidence of what I’ve done.

But it won’t leave.

It never completely does. Although it may be cleaned from your hands, the residue remains engraved in your mind. Or is it just me?

Sighing, I lift my head up and stare ahead.

The mirror above the sink is cracked, the web of fractures slicing through my reflection. My face looks warped, twisted, like a version of myself I no longer recognize.

And it may as well be.

I lift my hands, staring at the rough skin, the cuts on my knuckles. They tremble, just for a second, before I curl them into fists. I exhale sharply and force myself to breathe, slow and steady.

Each time I do what I did tonight, I feel something slip away. A piece of me breaking off, crumbling like old concrete. I tell myself it’s just another job, just another night, but my stomach is tight, my chest is heavy, and the back of my throat tastes like rusty metal.

I close my eyes, instantly snapping them open as images of the family—— Uncle, two sons, and their mother——whose lives I snuffed out just over an hour ago, flash to the forefront of my mind.

Reprisal.

Lester's way of sending a message.

The uncle and sons were mixed up in the crudeness of this life. Live by the gun, then so you shall surely fucking die. The mother, on the other hand, was merely collateral damage.

And I think that's the part that's fucking with my mental.

A knock on the door startles me. Sharp. Impatient.

“Yow?” I snap, still scrubbing my hands beneath the running water.

“Yow, D, Lester a look fi yuh!”

I close my eyes briefly, inhaling through my nose before answering. “Tell him mi soo’ fawud.”

The footsteps retreat, and I press my palms against the edge of the sink, gripping it until my arms strain.

I don’t want to go outside.

I don’t want to hear what Uncle Lester has to say.

But I have no choice.

I dry my hands on my jeans, exhaling slowly before stepping into the yard.

The night air is thick with smoke coming from the blazing fire lit in the pit by the fence. It's where they burn bloody clothes after a big kill.

Like tonight's quadruple murder.

I spot Lester right away—— sitting on the patio, legs spread wide in his usual chair, a big spliff burning between his fingers, as he chats animatedly to Ron and Hico who're seated beside him.

From where I am, I study his face. Time has hardened him, carved deep lines into his face, but his eyes are sharp as ever, spotting me as soon as I step out of the shadows, watching me with that slow, knowing smile.

“Dario,” he drawls, when I reach closer to him, his voice so deep it grates on my fucking nerves. “Mi hear wah yuh gwaan wid since night, mi nephew.”

I don’t answer. Silence is safer.

He takes a long pull from his spliff, then exhales, the smoke curling around his face. He watches me through it, like he’s reading something in me that he alone can see.

Then he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Di fassy dem never even know what’s coming, eeh?”

My jaw tightens.

Lester chuckles, low and dry. “Suck dem mumma and puppa from di bloodclaat dutt.”

My stomach knots, but I keep my face blank.

He leans back, tapping ash onto the ground. “A so mi love when mi send a man fi do wuk, and dem do di bloodclaat wuk.”

He pauses. It's a test.

Because I’m not just “a man”. I’m his nephew. His blood. And that means my work reflects on him. If I hesitate, if I flinch, if I let anything show, it’s a weakness.

And weakness in this world gets you fucking killed.

So I nod.

Just once.

And that’s all it takes.

Lester grins, wide and satisfied. “Because a that, mi have a next job fi yuh.”

Without meeting their eyes, I can feel Hico and Ron watching me, waiting to see my reaction. The weight of their gazes press down on me. My refusal would be an insult. A challenge.

So I nod again.

And just like that, I lose another piece of myself.

The yard is quiet, except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the distant sound of dogs barking in the gully.

Mi waa sleep.

Maybe that will help shut my brain off for a second.

Regardless, I roll my shoulders back, keeping my stance loose, unreadable.

“What’s the job?” My voice comes out steady, even though my pulse drums in my ears.

Lester smirks, tapping the ash off his spliff. “Tomorrow night. Same kinda wuk. But dis time, it's personal.”

Personal?

That word makes my stomach sink. Business is business——cold, detached, transactional. I'm used to that. But personal? That shit is on another fucking ball field altogether.

“Who?” I croak out.

For some reason, I have a bad feeling about this.

Lester leans forward, again, his elbows on his knees, and locks eyes with me. “Gravy.”

My heart slows.

Gravy?

Di fuck him mean Gravy?

I force my expression to stay neutral, but inside, something twists sharp and painful.

Gravy was one of us. One of Lester’s most trusted men. He was the one who taught me how to load a clip properly, how to move under the radar, how to disappear into the shadows when the time called for it——how I managed to do Lester's dirty work over the years.

Three years to be exact.

Gravy has been with him since I was a fucking juvenile. And mi a big man now.

If Lester wants him gone, that means one thing——Gravy fucked up.

Badly.

“You a hesitate, bwoy?” Uncle Lester asks, tilting his head. His tone is light, almost amused, but I know better.

“Nah.” The lie rolls off my tongue too easily.

He studies me for a second, then grins. “Good.” He flicks his spliff away, letting it smolder in the dirt. “Because a loyalty we deal wid, Dario. An’ if a man cyaa show loyalty, dem nuh deserve life.”

I can't tell whether that's meant for Gravy or for me.

Regardless, I nod again, the motion slow, deliberate. My throat feels tight.

Lester slaps his hands on his knees and stands. “Get some rest, bredda. Tomorrow night mi a expect yuh fi handle it. No hitching.”

I don’t answer.

Because what the fuck else is there to say?

I turn and walk away, feeling the eyes of the men on my back, burning into me.

When I step inside the small, dimly lit room I’ve been calling home, for a month, since Lester wanted me closer——I'm the only real “family” he has now, according to him——I close the door behind me and lean against it. My chest feels funny, like something weighty is pressing down on it.

Gravy, dawg!?

A wah di man coulda do so?

In an effort to soothe my frayed nerves, I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose.

Whether or not I get that answer, the decision has already been made.

Tomorrow night...tomorrow night I have to kill the man who once saved my life.

A level of unease settles deep in my bones.

I drop onto the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, my hands laced together so tightly my knuckles crack under the pressure. My fingers still smell like gun oil. Like metal. Like death.

Gravy?

Of all people?

Jah know?

I shake my head, scoffing below my breath.

I remember the first time I held a gun——how awkward and heavy it felt in my hands. How my fingers fumbled with the safety, my palms slick with sweat. I remember Gravy’s laughter, deep and amused, as he clapped me on the shoulder, bringing my hand up to straighten my aim.

"Relax, yute. Di gun can smell fear eno. A you a control it, ano it a rule yuh," he'd said, the spliff hanging from the corner of his mouth.

He was always chatting some shit, always cracking jokes even in the darkest moments. He made this life feel easier, like it was just another obligation I had. Since the moment I was dragged into it, that man was there for me. It was never easy. But I managed.

And now, Lester wants him gone.

I rub a hand down my face, trying to shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

There’s a rule in this life——you never question orders. You do the job, keep your head down, and move on. That’s how you stay alive.

And that's how I've been living.

I'm never one to overthink an order. I just do as I'm told. But this one doesn’t sit right with me.

Maybe because it's not only fucked up, but it's so close to home.

I think of all the times Gravy had my back, all the times he looked out for me when nobody else did.

And now I’m supposed to put a bullet in his motherfucking head?

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The room feels smaller than usual, and I'm not claustrophobic. My pulse is a slow, steady drum in my ears.

I can’t do this. Big woman t'ing...

But I have no fucking choice.

After a minute or two of just laying still, I inhale deeply, pushing everything down, locking my thoughts, my emotions away where they won’t get in the way.

My eyes find the clock on the wall above the fridge.

It's almost midnight.

An exasperated sigh parts my lips and escapes in a hot gush of air. I roll over. Then I reach under my bed, pull out the small duffel bag, and check my gun.

Tomorrow night, I have a job to do.

.                               .                          .

3:55 A.M.

Try as I fucking might, sleep never comes.

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the noises outside, in the wee hours of the morning——the occasional bark of a dog, the distant roar of a bike on the main road, the soft murmur of voices in the yard. Di man dem weh a stand guard.

I keep seeing Gravy’s face in my head, hearing his voice like he’s standing right next to me. “Di gun can smell fear...”

Maybe that explains why my own gun feels heavier than usual. My grip tightens around the metal handle.

By the time the sky starts to lighten, I give up on sleep. I sit up, rubbing my hands over my face, then reach for the spliff I left on the nightstand. It takes me three tries to light it——my fingers are unsteady, betraying me.

I inhale deeply, holding the smoke in my lungs until the pressure in my chest eases, then exhale slowly. The weed dulls the edges, but it can’t erase the uneasiness sitting in my gut.

A knock sounds at the door.

This time, it’s not sharp or impatient. It’s deliberate. Calculated.

I already know who it is before I open it.

He's the only one who only knocks on this door once.

Swallowing my saliva, which taste like bile, I shove the weapon in the duffle, slide it back into the designated spot under the bed, then move to the door and open it.

Gravy stands there, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning my face like he already knows what’s going through my mind.

"Mi can come in?"

I hesitate for half a second, then step aside.

He walks in like he’s been here a hundred times before, because he has. He drops onto the chair in the corner, stretching his legs out. Unlike me, he's relaxed. It's fucked up that he has no idea his death sentence has already been signed.

Or maybe he does know.

Would explain why he's here.

To talk some sense into me?

Fi mek mi know say him lose all ratings fimi?

Wouldn't wrong him...

"Mi hear say Lester gi' yuh a next job," he says, flicking his gaze up to mine.

I don’t answer.

Gravy smirks, like he expected that. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "An' mi hear seh...it personal."

My stomach knots.

He knows.

I don’t know how, but he fucking knows.

I exhale through my nose, keeping my expression blank. "How yuh can pick up news so fast, bredda?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Yute, mi deh inna dis game too bloodclaat long fi nuh see di signs."

I tense, averting my gaze from his.

He tsks. Then adds, "Mi know seh a mi Lester want dead...an’ him a use you fi do it."

I grip the back of the chair, my fingers digging into the wood. "And if a so?"

This is where he tells me I'm a fucking idiot for accepting wasteman Lester's command...Mi done know that already.

Gravy studies me for a moment too long, then sits back, nodding slowly. "Den do it."

I blink. "Wah?"

His smirk fades. "Mi seh do it, D. If yuh nuh do it, somebody else wi' do it. An’ trust mi, dem ago ensure say mi fucking suffer."

Something cold curls in my stomach.

Di dawg a hear himself!? So him juss ago accept say another man have him fate inna him hands, juss so?

"Bredda...mi nuh waan kill yuh," I say, the words low, almost reluctant.

Gravy laughs, but there’s no humor in it. "Mi know. But mi did know dis day did a come. Yuh tink mi fool? Lester been a side-eye mi fi months now. Him nuh trust mi nuh more."

And yuh still stick around?

Fi wah?

I clench my jaw. "So wah? Yuh just go accept it?"

Yes, he's no saint. None of us are. Dem man yah create dem fair share a duppies inna life. But that nuh mean him deserve fi just...bomboclaat, dawg. Jah Jah.

His expression hardens. "Mi nuh have no choice, yute. Same way you nuh have no choice."

The room goes quiet.

The reality sits between us, a hard pill to swallow.

I could walk away from this job. I could disappear. But that wouldn’t change anything. Lester would send someone else. And Gravy would die anyway——probably worse.

And if I run?

Then Lester would send someone for me.

"Do it tonight," Gravy says suddenly, standing up. "Mi prefer fi just get it ova wid."

I don’t move.

He claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing briefly. "Mi proud a yuh, D. Fi a likkle boobinile weh Lester think woulda be a weak link inna e camp, yuh wul yuh own. An' mi respect yuh fi dat. Nuh mek nobody tell yuh different."

Then he walks out.

And I stand there, fists clenched, knowing that tonight, I have to kill the only man who ever treated me like family.

And there's nothing I can do about it.

That's the fucked up part.

.                        .                         .

I stay frozen long after Gravy leaves, his words hanging in the air above my head.

'Mi proud a yuh.'

How can he be proud of someone who isn't even proud of himself?

That's what I fail to understand.

And why him so unbothered 'bout all a dis?

As a man, in this line of work, you learn not to fear death. I don't think twice about how I'll die, when that time comes. But I don't know if I could just accept dying in this way, so...willingly. Fi have a man a decide how mi ago dead, when mi ago dead, and who di fuck ago kill mi. Juss so! Like him name bomboclaat God!

I sit back down on the bed, my foot bouncing restlessly against the floor. The gun is still in the duffel bag under the bed, but I don’t need to see it to feel its weight.

This isn’t my first job. I’ve pulled triggers many times before. I’ve watched men fall, seen the light leave their eyes, felt the heat of their blood soaking into my clothes. In fact, since yesterday evening, alone, a four mi send go meet dem maker.

But this?

This one feels different. And I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it.

And that's the shit about doing a work when your emotions are involved.

If I hesitate, I die. If I refuse, I die.

Lester made sure I understood that when he handed me this job.

'A loyalty we deal wid, Dario. An’ if a man cyaa show loyalty, dem nuh deserve life.'

Pushing the thought behind me, I rake my hands through my hair, exhaling sharply. All now mi nuh get fi reach a barber to pussyclaat.

Jah know.

.                          .                         .

I spend the remainder of the day locked in my room, drowning in my thoughts.

Usually I'm not one to overthink, like some sissy. I simply do. But I haven't been like myself lately.

Matter of fact, I haven't been myself for a while...

I'm pulled out of my head when an alert on my phone goes off.

I inhale a deep breath, trying to steady nerves, then reach under the bed and pull out the duffel bag. My hands move on instinct, checking the clip, the safety; the usual routine.

It's familiar. After all, I've done this a dozen times.

Except this time, my palms are sweating.

A sound outside makes me glance at the window. The sun is setting, casting a deep orange glow over the yard. Men are moving around, voices low, their energy different. They know something is coming. It's like that feeling you get when you sense death is near.

They just don’t know it’s Gravy that the death angel is coming to get.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, then stand.

It’s time.

The night air is thick with the scent of weed and rum when I find Gravy sitting on the back steps of the old warehouse we used for business. He’s got a Guinness in one hand, a cigarette in the other, liked you would find him on any regular night.

Man mussi a say might as well him enjoy his last day among the living.

Something pricks at my heart at the thought. Jah know...

He doesn’t look up when I approach.

"Yuh ready?" he asks, flicking ash off the cigarette.

I used to always tease him that smoking that shit would kill him one day, yet look how the tables have turned.

I swallow hard. My fingers twitch at my sides.

"Yeah."

He nods, taking a long pull from the cigarette before exhaling slowly. "Yuh know say mi always wonder how it wudda go when mi time come? If mi wudda feel it inna mi bones. If mi woulda die wid mi mattic blazing. Or, if mi wudda run."

He chuckles humourlessly. "Did always swear dem woulda affi fuck mi up on the run though."

I shift on my feet. "So what changed now? Why aren't you running?"

I wish he would.

Gravy chuckles, shaking his head. "Mi too bloodclaat tired fi run, yute."

Silence stretches between us. The distant sound of music drifts through the night, blending with the occasional laughter from the men in the yard.

Normal preements.

Like nothing is about to happen. Only, I know better.

I tighten my grip on the gun inside my jacket.

"Yuh ever regret it?" I ask suddenly. My voice feels too loud in the quiet.

Gravy finally looks at me, his gaze sharp but calm. "Regret what?"

"Dis life."

He takes a sip of his Guinness, then rests the bottle beside him. "A mi choose dis eno. Badness a wah mi grow up pon. A it alone mi know from mi a likkle boobinile 'til now. Hear ma' say nuh...life cut out different fi everybody, yute. An' mi live mine how mi did waan live it. Enjoy the fuck outta it tuh. So no, mi nuh regret it."

His eyes darken slightly. "But mi regret some things. Some people mi lose. Some things mi do. And some things mi neva get fi do. Like have a yute and t'ing. That a probably why mi did drawn to yuh so. Guess mi see yuh as mi son weh mi did want but never get..."

I nod slowly, my throat tight.

I guess the fact that he doesn't have a family to mourn him, or suffer because of this, is why he's so accepting of his fate.

Jah Jah.

He nods, seeing the look on my face I guess. Then he sighs, stretching his legs out. "Aight. Mek wi do dis."

Swallowing hard, I pull out the gun, and select a bullet.

Gravy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.

Instead, he looks me in the eye, his expression unreadable.

"Mi proud a yuh, yute," he says quietly. "Mi did tell yuh dat already, but mi want yuh fi 'memba it."

My chest feels like it’s caving in.

I exhale, lifting the gun, finger on the trigger.

My hand doesn't shake as I aim it at his forehead.

Gravy closes his eyes.

"Rest inna e clouds, mi fada, mi respect yuh yuh fuck," I say, my voice choked.

Then I pull the trigger.