He heard voices from behind and glanced in his mirror. A heat-wilted Black woman with her two kids, a boy and a girl, were going to pass him by. The boy was about thirteen. Perfect. The Yo-Yo placed the phone against his ear, engrossed in an imaginary voice mail, hiding his face as he waited for them to pass—hiding his Caucasian face.

They’d be at the stop sign in twenty yards, and the Yo-Yo figured that would give them a swell view of what was about to happen. He did a quick 360 for any cops, took out the Ruger from his jacket pocket, flicked its safety off, and tucked it behind his back in the waistband of his pants. He pulled his visor nearly all the way down and hit the engine start. Time to go to work.

He made it to the stop just as the family was about to cross. They had to wait as he turned onto Lovett. As he approached the Impala, he saw three pairs of eyes zero in on him. Three guys who were trusted and experienced enough to be sent to claim territory from the enemy.

The Yo-Yo gave a small nod to the driver, who ignored it. They watched him warily as he pulled up. He killed the engine and made a two-finger sign—two G. Then he resisted the temptation to watch them in the car, sensing the tiny movements of hands cosseting guns, fingers caressing triggers. Instead, he made as if he were nervously checking around for cops—just a local Joe looking to score, the scariest moment in his day. Behind them, a refinery train clanked over the concrete bridge spanning Michigan Avenue.

When he looked back, a hand was out of the Impala, hanging loosely. One of them at least had decided he was legit.

“Two ten.”

The Yo-Yo nodded and reached absentmindedly behind him. Suddenly the driver found himself staring down the barrel of the Yo-Yo’s gun. Its noise was dulled by the train. The driver’s head snapped back without time to register surprise. Guns on laps were guns that were too far away to be of use. The Ruger moved instantly to the front passenger and fired. The Yo-Yo didn’t even see pieces of skull and brain spraying out the opposite window. His aim was jumping onto the backseat dealer whose gun arm was nearly up. But the Yo-Yo’s Ruger was already covering his face and in that split second he knew he’d won, as he’d done many times in his nearly forty years. This favorite microsecond would replay in his mind. Victory, jungle law, whatever. It was pretty much the only thing worth getting emotional about, that and the next Lions game.

Orders.