Fire

As the final notes of their practice session faded away, Arell found himself bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his brow, his shirt clinging to his body like a second skin.

"That's a wrap for today," Jamal announced. "You're making progress, Arell. That one-two step is coming along nicely."

Mia, the vocal coach, nodded in agreement. "And your breath control while moving? Improving every day. Keep this up, and you'll be giving Justin Timberlake a run for his money."

Arell straightened up, a tired grin spreading across his face. "Thanks, y'all. This is... intense. But I'm starting to see why Geoffrey insisted on the dance lessons."

After a quick shower and change, Arell made his way to the parking lot. His customized BMW X5 sat waiting, its gunmetal grey paint job gleaming under the streetlights.

The engine purred to life, and Arell eased out onto the street. As he merged onto the highway, his thoughts drifted to the rewards he'd received for his chart-topping success. The fan loyalty boost, the increased collaboration requests – it was all good. But it was the mention of certain artists that gave him pause.

Justin Bieber, Drake... and Rihanna.

He remembered Pharrell's reaction after hearing that song about her – the uncertainty in his eyes… What was it about Rihanna that Pharell didn't like?

Arell shook his head, trying to dispel the unease. He focused on the road ahead but as he glanced in the rearview mirror, something caught his eye.

A car, nondescript and dark, was following him. At first, he dismissed it as paranoia. But as he made a series of turns, each more random than the last, the car remained stubbornly behind him.

This wasn't just coincidence. He was being followed.

"Shit," he muttered, reaching for the Glock in the center console. He placed it on his lap, then stretched back to grab the platform rifle from the rear seat.

The X5's upgraded suspension allowed for smooth, controlled movements as Arell executed a series of subtle maneuvers. He never exceeded the speed limit, but created distance between himself and his pursuer without drawing attention.

Rush hour traffic built like a tidal wave, but the sedan kept pace. Arell's jaw clenched as he pondered his next move. With one hand on the wheel, he fumbled for his phone, hitting Geoffrey's speed dial.

"Geoffrey," Arell said, voice tense, "I'm being followed. Dark sedan, tinted windows. Been on my ass since I left the studio."

"Where are you?" Geoffrey's voice was sharp, focused.

"Highway, heading east. Heavy traffic."

"Take the next exit. Use the traffic as cover. Don't slow down till the last second."

Arell spotted the upcoming exit, his palms heavy on the steering wheel. He maintained speed, weaving through cars as if simply navigating congestion. At the last possible moment, he cut across two lanes, barely making the exit as horns blared behind him.

The sedan wasn't so lucky, forced to continue past the exit.

"Good," Geoffrey said. "First right, then immediate left onto Elm Street. Drive slow, like you're looking for an address."

Arell followed the instructions, scanning his surroundings. The sedan reappeared, closing the gap.

"I see you," Geoffrey's voice came through. "And I see them. Keep it steady."

As Arell crept down Elm Street, he suddenly saw Geoffrey's SUV backing out of a parking spot ahead. Time slowed as he passed.

Geoffrey reversed at an angle, blocking the entire street. The sedan screeched to a halt, trapped.

"Go!" Geoffrey barked. "I've got this."

Arell floored it, the X5's engine roaring as he sped away. In his mirror, he glimpsed Geoffrey calmly approaching the sedan, looking for all the world like he'd just made an innocent driving error.

<>

Geoffrey's eyes narrowed as he watched the sedan come to an abrupt stop in front of him. The tinted windows obscured any view of the driver, but he could feel their eyes on him, trying to figure out if this was just an ordinary traffic mishap or something more.

Calmly, Geoffrey got out of his SUV, the picture of a well-dressed man who'd just made a simple driving mistake. He raised a hand in an apologetic wave, his face carefully composed into a mask of mild embarrassment. As he approached the sedan, the driver's window slid down just an inch—barely enough for him to see a pair of suspicious eyes glaring back at him.

"Sorry about that!" Geoffrey called out, his voice friendly, disarming. "Totally my fault. Let me just back up and get out of your way."

There was a tense pause. Geoffrey could feel the driver weighing whether or not to believe him, deciding if he was a threat or just a bumbling, well-meaning stranger. Finally, the driver's window slid up again, and the sedan began to reverse.

Geoffrey walked slowly back to his SUV, not in a hurry to clear the street, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror of the sedan as he went. The sedan straightened and drove off, pulling ahead down the narrow street, away from the trap Geoffrey had set.

Geoffrey slipped back into his seat, pulling his vehicle into a smooth U-turn to follow. He kept a careful distance, his practiced eye never letting the sedan slip too far ahead, but making sure to blend into the stream of traffic. He stayed back, always just another car in the background. They weren't going far—he could feel it.

When the sedan made a final turn and pulled into a gated driveway, Geoffrey slowed down, easing his SUV to a stop a block away. He cut the engine, taking a moment to study the house.

The estate wasn't much to look at—just another suburban mansion with a pristine lawn, tall hedges, and an ordinary brick facade. There was nothing imposing about it, but Geoffrey knew better than to let appearances deceive him. Donelly would continue to be a nuance, after cutting him down to size a few months ago it seemed that Donnelly still hadn't learned his lesson.

The gates to the mansion were closed, but not particularly formidable. Security was minimal—probably a few guards from Donnelly's crew, the same men who manage security at his performance venues.

Satisfied with his reconnaissance, Geoffrey put the SUV back in gear and drove off, taking a roundabout route back to the scrapyard. The city lights faded behind him as he navigated the more desolate roads, the urban landscape giving way to a more industrial, forgotten part of town.

The scrapyard had once been a chaotic mess of rusting metal and forgotten machines, but under Geoffrey's control, it had transformed into something much more organized and professional. The perimeter was fortified with tall, barbed-wire fences, and the lot now had a sense of order. Stacks of metal parts and old vehicles were arranged in neat rows, while two new buildings stood at the back.

As he pulled into the scrapyard, Geoffrey's SUV was met with a few nods from the men who guarded the entrance. They were mostly a mix of Mexican and Black men, men who had found a purpose under Geoffrey's leadership. Each one was loyal, disciplined, and ready to act at a moment's notice.

Geoffrey parked and stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel as he made his way toward the main building. He was immediately greeted by Rico.

"Señor Geoffrey," Rico said, respectful but urgent. "Everything is ready."

Geoffrey nodded. "Good. We have a situation with Donnelly. He's trying to play a game he's not equipped to win."

Rico's expression hardened. He knew what that meant—Donnelly was a loose end that needed to be tied up, and Geoffrey wasn't one to leave things unfinished.

"Get Carlos and Eduardo," Geoffrey ordered. "We're paying Donnelly a visit tonight."

Rico nodded and jogged off to gather the other two men. Geoffrey watched him go, his mind already calculating the steps ahead. Donnelly might have been a small-time player, but underestimating any opponent was a mistake Geoffrey never made.

Geoffrey made his way to the back of the main building, where the disguised heavy steel door to the armory stood. The door creaked open as he entered, the interior dimly lit by a single overhead light. The room utilitarian, with shelves lining the walls, each one filled with weapons and tools of the trade.

He reached for a pair of black gloves first, next, he retrieved a Glock, already fitted with a silencer. Geoffrey checked the chamber, ensuring it was loaded and ready, before holstering it at his side.

He reached into the small locker in the armory and pulled out a vial. The clear liquid inside was no ordinary concoction; it was potassium cyanide, a potent and deadly toxin that was virtually undetectable once ingested.

Rico, Carlos, and Eduardo were waiting outside, their expressions serious as Geoffrey stepped outside.

"We're taking the pickup," Geoffrey said. "It's less conspicuous. We'll approach from the east side, use the tree line for cover."

The men nodded in agreement, and they moved to the far side of the scrapyard where an old, beat-up pickup truck sat among the piles of scrap metal. It was nondescript, the kind of vehicle that wouldn't draw a second glance in the neighborhoods they'd be passing through. Rico climbed into the driver's seat, while Geoffrey and Carlos took the passenger side. Eduardo slipped into the bed of the truck, crouching low.

The drive to Donnelly's mansion was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. Geoffrey's mind was focused, calculating every possible scenario. He knew Donnelly was a desperate man, and desperate men were dangerous.

As they neared the mansion, Rico killed the headlights, letting the truck roll silently to a stop about a block away from the entrance. Geoffrey scanned the area, his eyes sharp, noting the positions of the security guards outside the gate. They were the same men who had followed Arell earlier, now standing guard, oblivious to the danger closing in on them.

"Carlos, take out the cameras," Geoffrey ordered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos nodded, slipping out of the truck with a small silenced pistol in hand. Moments later, Geoffrey heard the faint sound of suppressed gunfire—a soft pfft that barely disturbed the quiet of the night. One by one, the cameras around the mansion went dark, their feeds cut off as Carlos disabled them.

With the cameras down, Geoffrey motioned for Eduardo to join them. The three men approached the mansion, using the cover of the trees to stay out of sight. The guards at the gate were inattentive, likely bored after hours of uneventful duty. Geoffrey eyed the thick tree branch that hung over the stone wall surrounding the property—a perfect vantage point.

Eduardo went first, climbing up the tree with the ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. He reached the branch and swung himself over the wall, landing silently on the other side. Rico followed, and then Geoffrey, all men now inside the compound without alerting the guards.

They moved swiftly through the shadows, making their way to the back of the mansion. Geoffrey spotted the rear entrance—a simple door meant for staff, rarely used by anyone important. He knelt by the door, pulling out a lock pick from his pocket. The mechanism was old, easy to manipulate, and within seconds, Geoffrey had the door open.

They entered the mansion, the interior silent and dimly lit. The faint smell of tea and tobacco lingered in the air, Geoffrey led the way, his Glock drawn, as they moved through the hallways. They were ghosts, moving through the house without a sound, clearing each room silently.

When they reached the kitchen, Geoffrey paused. The room was empty, but a kettle sat on the stove, steam rising from the spout, filling the room with the scent of brewing tea. Geoffrey allowed himself a small, humorless smile. Donnelly was close—he could feel it.

He motioned for Rico, Carlos and Eduardo to take up positions by the entrances to the kitchen, their weapons drawn, ready to take down anyone who entered. Geoffrey, meanwhile, walked to the stove, picking up the kettle. He poured the steaming liquid into a fine porcelain teacup that sat waiting on the counter.

Geoffrey retrieved the vial of potassium cyanide from his jacket pocket, uncorking it with a flick of his thumb. The liquid poured smoothly into the tea, with the brew.

Satisfied, Geoffrey set the teacup back down on the counter and took a seat at the kitchen table. He placed his Glock on the table in front of him, the metal gleaming under the soft light of the overhead fixture.

Now, all that was left was to wait.

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last. Geoffrey's patience was endless, he knew Donnelly would come—he why would he have hot water brewing if he didn't end his night with tea.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, followed by the creak of the kitchen door. Geoffrey didn't move, didn't react as Donnelly stepped into the room. The man was exactly as Geoffrey remembered him—large, with a gut that strained against his shirt, his face flushed with the excesses of his lifestyle.

Donnelly froze when he saw Geoffrey sitting at his kitchen table, the blood draining from his face. His eyes darted to the Glock on the table, and then back to Geoffrey's cold, unflinching gaze.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Donnelly spat, but even the anger in his voice couldn't find the fear evident in his face. "You think you can just walk into my house like this?"

Geoffrey remained silent, watching as Donnelly's bravado faltered. The fat man's hand trembled as he reached for cup of the poisoned tea. Geoffrey's eyes never left him, not even when Donnelly finally sat down across from him, the cup cradled in his thick fingers.

"You've been having fun, haven't you?" Geoffrey finally said. "Sending your men after Arell, trying to reclaim what you lost, you're dignity."

Donnelly sneered, taking a sip of his tea, unaware of the lethal dose he had just ingested. "You think you can scare me, Geoffrey? I'm not the same man I was before. You and that little punk can't just push me around anymore."

Geoffrey's expression remained unreadable. "You're not a threat, Donnelly. You never were. Any man willing to stoop as low as to pick strippers off side streets and rape them... Is not a man to be feared"

Donnelly's face twisted with rage as Geoffrey's words sank in. "You don't know shit," he growled, slamming the teacup down on the table. "I'm not afraid of you. If you were going to kill me, you would've done it already."

Geoffrey leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps. Or maybe I just wanted you to understand how insignificant you are before you die."

Donnelly's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his expression. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Geoffrey didn't answer. Instead, he stood up, retrieving his Glock from the table, all the whilst signaling to Rico, Carlos and Eduardo to hold their positions at the entrances.

As Geoffrey turned to leave, Donnelly's eyes followed him. "You think you can just walk out of here, Geoffrey? You'll be dead in a day, that I promise you!"

Geoffrey paused at the doorway, his hand on the frame. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look back at Donnelly. "I already told you, Donnelly. You're not a threat. You're just a loose end. And I've already taken care of you." His gaze remained fixed on Donnelly, whose bloodshot eyes were wide with fear.

Donnelly's breathing was heavy, his face glistening with sweat as he tried to process what Geoffrey had just said. "I thought you were leaving," Donnelly croaked, his voice shaky, laced with desperation.

Geoffrey slowly turned back to face him fully, a cold smile curling at the edges of his lips. "No, Donnelly," he replied, his tone icy but calm. "We're just waiting."

Donnelly's confusion deepened, but before he could ask what Geoffrey meant, a sudden wave of nausea hit him. His stomach churned violently, and his vision began to blur. He clutched at his throat, trying to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. Panic flashed in his eyes as he realized something was terribly wrong.

The poison was beginning to take effect.

Donnelly's fingers trembled as he reached for the teacup, now knocked over, a small pool of tea slowly spreading across the table. Donnelly's heart began to race, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

Geoffrey watched the scene unfold with detached interest, his arms crossed over his chest. Rico and Eduardo stood at the ready, flanking the door, their eyes locked on Donnelly.

"What's... happening?" Donnelly wheezed, his voice barely audible as he clawed at his throat. His body convulsed violently, his legs kicking out as he tried to rise from the chair, only to collapse back into it. The tea he'd been drinking felt like fire in his veins, burning him from the inside out.

Geoffrey remained silent, his expression unreadable as he watched Donnelly writhe in agony. The poison was doing its work, systematically shutting down Donnelly's body. Sweat poured down the man's face, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. He tried to scream, but no sound came out—only a strangled, gurgling noise as he choked on his own saliva.

His hands shot out, grasping at the table, at the chair, at anything he could find, but it was useless. The strength was draining from his limbs, leaving him weak and helpless. His body convulsed one final time before he slumped over, his head lolling to the side, eyes staring vacantly into the distance.

Geoffrey uncrossed his arms and walked over to Donnelly. He reached down and placed two fingers on Donnelly's neck, checking for a pulse. There was none.

He straightened up, looking at Rico and Eduardo. "Take the body," he ordered.

Rico and Eduardo moved quickly, grabbing Donnelly's lifeless body and lifting it from the chair. They dragged him through the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood and sweat behind as they made their way to the back entrance.

Geoffrey stepped outside, the cool night air washing over him as Rico and Eduardo dumped Donnelly's body into the back of the pickup truck. The two guards were next. Rico and Eduardo moved quickly, not saying a word as they put down and retrieved the bodies from where they had fallen.

They placed the bodies in the truck bed, arranging them to minimize any visibility. Geoffrey watched as Rico then retrieved a can of gasoline from the truck and poured it over the bodies, soaking them in the flammable liquid. The sickly-sweet smell of gasoline mixed with the coppery scent of blood, a nauseating combination.

Once the bodies were secured, Geoffrey turned to Carlos, who was standing by the driver's door. "Drive," Geoffrey ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Carlos nodded and climbed into the driver's seat. Rico and Eduardo jumped into the truck's cab, while Geoffrey climbed into the passenger seat. The truck's engine roared to life, and they pulled away from the mansion, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as they headed toward the edge of the property.

They drove in silence, the only sound the hum of the engine as they made their way to a remote, desolate area on the outskirts of Atlanta. The truck's headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the narrow dirt road that wound through the dense forest. The trees loomed over them, their branches casting long, skeletal shadows across the path.

After what felt like an eternity, Carlos slowed the truck to a stop in a clearing surrounded by thick underbrush. The area was far from any prying eyes, a place where no one would stumble upon what they were about to do.

Geoffrey got out of the truck, his boots sinking into the soft earth as he surveyed the area. It was perfect—isolated, hidden, a place where the dead could be buried and forgotten.

"Here," Geoffrey said. "Dig."

Rico and Eduardo jumped out of the truck, grabbing shovels from the bed. They set to work immediately, the sound of metal biting into earth echoing through the quiet night. Geoffrey stood watch, his eyes scanning the perimeter for any signs of movement, but there was nothing—just the rustle of leaves in the wind and the distant hoot of an owl.

The hole was deep, the earth loose and dark. Rico and Eduardo worked quickly, their muscles straining as they shoveled dirt out of the pit. Sweat glistened on their brows, but they didn't stop until the hole was wide enough and deep enough to accommodate the three bodies.

"Bring them," Geoffrey ordered once the hole was ready.

Rico and Eduardo moved to the truck, lifting Donnelly's body first. They carried him to the edge of the pit and unceremoniously dropped him in, his body landing with a dull thud at the bottom of the grave. The guards' bodies followed, one after the other, until all three corpses lay at the bottom of the hole, piled on top of each other like garbage.

Geoffrey stepped to the edge of the pit and looked down at the bodies. Donnelly's lifeless eyes stared up at him, the man's face twisted in a final, permanent expression of terror.

"Cover them," Geoffrey said, his voice as cold as the night air.

Rico and Eduardo began to shovel dirt back into the pit, the earth covered the bodies quickly, burying them deep beneath the ground. Soon, there was no trace of the grave—just a patch of disturbed soil in the middle of the forest.

Satisfied, Geoffrey turned to Rico, who was already reaching for his phone. Without a word, Rico dialed a number.

"We're ready. I'll send the location, come with the car," Rico said before ending the call and tucking the phone back into his pocket. He glanced at Geoffrey, waiting for further instructions.

"Good," Geoffrey said, his voice calm. "Now, take care of the truck."

Carlos, who had been standing off to the side, stepped forward with a can of gasoline in hand. He doused the truck's interior and exterior, the pungent smell of gasoline filling the air. The three men watched as Carlos soaked every inch of the vehicle, ensuring that nothing would remain.

Once the truck was thoroughly saturated, Carlos stepped back and struck a match. The small flame flickered in the darkness before he tossed it onto the truck. The gasoline ignited with a loud whoosh, flames quickly engulfing the vehicle.

The fire roared to life, its heat pushing back the cool night air. Geoffrey, Rico, and Eduardo stood silently, watching as the flames consumed the truck, reducing it to a smoldering heap of metal and ash. The crackling of burning wood and the hiss of melting rubber filled the air, but none of the men flinched.

They waited until the fire had done its job, leaving nothing but charred remains behind.