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Meek Mill could be heard coming through the speakers of Bridger's ride as I rode shot gun Sunday evening. We were on our way out of Hacienda to head to Rowland. It was time for my first walk-through and Bridger was down to ride.
I sat slouched in the passenger seat, rolling around a set of Baoding balls in my palm as I stared out at the passing scenery. The balls weren't working and I was gaining a tick the more time went on. As aggravated as I was, I knew it was a good time to debut my guard over the stash house. I was fed up and pissed off, and one thing out of place would set me off, I just knew.
"Yo, you good?" Bridger asked.
I shook my head. "No, far from it."
"You need to chill. You look about ready to snap over there."
"Between the fact that my dick feels like a hot air balloon, I gotta deal with the set not thinking I'm good enough to become official." I faced my best friend. "Pretty hard to chill with those odds against me."
"I think you're good enough."
I smirked. "Good, why don't you write me a fuckin' recommendation letter, Bridge."
He cracked a smile and slugged my shoulder. We'd come to a halt in front of a two story suburban home located in a quiet little cul-de-sac. Show time.
The operation, from my research, was housed as a few college kids sharing a home and going to school. Every other week they'd get together and have game nights and little get-togethers, just routine enough not to call suspicion with the amount of coming and going to the suburban home. Alec had a kid staying at the residence at all hours to play off the role of actually living there. He made sure the kid was friendly with the neighbors, got his mail, took out the trash, mowed his lawn, and even had a pet cat. Not to mention the house was completely furnished and well kept.
Rowland wasn't permanent, just transitory, but still, we wanted to keep things under control and make sure our dealers were doing their job. According to Alec, Rowland was just the factory; we never sold in Rowland, no matter the reason. Our true territory was as far out as L.A., Malibu, Beverly Hills and even down in the O.C. We sold to the elite and kept our operations sparse. Our prices were good and our dealers were trustworthy, at least trustworthy enough.
The drug side of our organization brought in good money, but Alec didn't want "good" money, he wanted filthy money. It was one of the reasons why he was so antsy about trafficking. Underground, there were men willing to pay hundreds of thousands for rare breeds of girls and women. If my Achilles' heel was my heart, I didn't feel ashamed of it, because the idea of doing what got our father locked up felt stupid, and beyond that, the idea of forcing women and girls to sell themselves against their will for profit felt too evil.
