OLD DEBTS, NEW RULES

SMOKE’S POV

The drive back from Santos’s house was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was that kind of silence that hums in your ears, the kind that fills up with thoughts nobody wants to say out loud. I could feel Charle's eyes on me from the passenger seat. Jimmy was in the back, shifting around like his seat was on fire. Nobody spoke for a while.

Finally, Charle broke the silence.

"So, you planned all of that from the start?" he asked, his tone low but sharp.

I glanced his way, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my leg. "Yeah," I said simply. "Had to. Ain’t no way we were walking outta there clean otherwise."

Charle let out a short laugh, shaking his head like he was impressed but didn’t want to admit it. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, man."

"Smart choice," I said with a small grin, eyes still locked on the road ahead.

Jimmy leaned forward from the back, his eyes wide like he’d just seen a ghost. He was jittery, couldn’t sit still, like the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

“What about that guy that tried to kill us at the red light the other day?” charles asked, his voice rising a bit. “We just gonna let that slide?”

I didn't answer right away, letting the question sit in the air for a second. Then I spoke, slow and steady. "I’m handling it."

Charles sat up straighter. “Yeah? You got a lead?”

"Yeah," I nodded. “Called in a favor. Got a friend to run the plate on the car.”

Charles leaned forward even more, like he couldn’t wait to hear it. “And? What did your guy find out?”

“Car was a rental,” I said flatly. “Burned it right after the hit. Nothing left but metal and ash.”

“Damn,” Jimmy muttered, sitting back like all the air had left him. “So no prints, no cameras, no nothing?”

“Not for most people,” I said, glancing at him through the rearview. "But I know who it was."

The air shifted in the car. Charle sat up, giving me a long look.

“Who?” Jimmy asked, his voice sharp with curiosity.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, cutting my eyes back to the road. “Ain’t your business.”

But that motherfucker try to kill us, smoke muttered

“Kill us?” jimmy asked, frowning. “I ain’t got no beef with nobody. Why would somebody come after me?”

“They weren’t after you,” I said, grip tightening on the wheel. “They were after me.”

Charle sat back, nodding slowly like he’d just solved a puzzle. “Right. Makes sense.”

He didn’t press it. Smart move. Jimmy didn’t either, though I could see the questions bouncing around in his head. Sometimes it’s better not to ask.

Later That Night

I stood outside a small house at the end of a quiet street. No streetlights, no cameras, just a place where folks mind their business. It had been 11 years since I last saw Marco Reyes, and I knew the kind of man he was. Coward. Snake. Liar. He ran off with a million of our money, thought he could hide. Now, after all these years, he was sitting in this little house like nobody would find him.

But I did.

I crouched by the window, watching him through the glass. He was pacing back and forth, hands rubbing the back of his neck. He knew. Somehow, he knew I was coming. I could see it in the way he kept looking at the front door, like he was expecting a knock that would never come.

But I wasn’t knocking.

I moved to the side door, pulling a slim metal pick from my pocket. The lock didn’t put up much of a fight. Click. Door swung open, quiet as a whisper. Inside, it smelled like stale food and cheap air freshener. The floor creaked under my boots, but I didn’t stop.

I knew exactly where Marco would be. People like him always go to the same spot when they’re scared — somewhere they can see the exits. Sure enough, he was standing in the living room, back turned, hands on his head like he’d been trying to think his way out of this.

I stepped inside, slow and quiet.

"Marco," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a knife.

He spun around so fast, his eyes wide with shock. His hands went up, like I’d already pulled the trigger. “Smoke—Smoke! I knew it, man. I knew you’d come.” He stumbled back, his eyes darting around the room like he was looking for a way out. “Please, man. Just... just hear me out.”

"Where’s your family?" I asked, my voice steady.

His breathing got faster. “They’re asleep. Please, man. They don’t know nothin’. They don’t deserve this.”

I took a step forward. “They’re not why I’m here.”

He dropped to his knees, hands pressed together like he was praying. “I knew this day would come. I knew it. But my kids, man… please… I have kids

I looked down at him, disgusted. “You ran with a million dollars, Marco. You thought you could hide forever?” and also tried to kill me

“I was desperate!” he cried, head down. “I had nothin’, man. I was scared! I thought you'd kill me back then. I thought I had no choice!”

“You always had a choice,” I said coldly.

I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up to his feet. He tried to pull away, but I slammed him against the wall, hard enough to rattle the picture frames. BAM. His head bounced off the wall, and he groaned, dazed.

"You got one chance," I said, grabbing his face and making him look at me. “You work for me now.”

He blinked, confused, blood trickling from his lip. "Wh-what? What do you mean?"

"You’re gonna pay me," I said, my eyes locked on his. "Every week, you hand over $250. No excuses, no delays. I’ll be watching.”

His eyes were wild, his breath shaky. “Okay! Okay, man! I swear, I’ll pay you! Every week!”

“You better.”

I shoved him back against the wall. He slid down to the floor, gasping like he’d been underwater too long. I stared at him, letting it all sink in.

“You disappear again,” I said, pulling out my gun, “and I’ll make sure your family reads about you in the papers.”

He flinched, his eyes squeezing shut like he was bracing for a bullet. But I didn’t shoot him. Not yet. I raised the gun and aimed for his shoulder.

“Don’t—don’t—please!” he screamed.

BANG.

He let out a howl, rolling on the floor, clutching his shoulder. Blood poured out fast, soaking his shirt. His breathing came in quick, sharp gasps, and tears ran down his face.

“You think I’m playin’?” I said, standing over him. “You pay me $250 every week. You miss once, you’re done. No second chances.”

He nodded, face twisted in pain, teeth clenched tight. “I will! I swear, I will!”

I walked out of the house, quiet as I came in. No one in the house stirred. The wife. The kids. They’d never know how close they came to waking up to something worse.

Outside, I lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag as I leaned against the wall. I could still hear him inside, crying, his voice muffled by the walls. Weak. Pathetic.

I let the smoke roll out slow, watching it twist and spin in the cold night air.

People think running from your past makes it disappear. They think time erases old debts.

They’re wrong.

Some debts never go away.

One way or another, I always get paid.