Always Ten Steps Ahead

We lived by a code, a silent pact etched into the concrete soul of our streets. Vigilance wasn't just a tactic; it was our breath, our heartbeat. We were always ten steps ahead, a phantom in the periphery, a whisper on the wind that left the hounds of the law and the vipers of rival crews sniffing at empty air. They wanted us, oh, how they wanted us. The gang task forces, with their grim faces and their even grimmer intentions, were a constant hum of threat beneath the surface of our lives. And the streets themselves, a fickle mistress, could turn on you in a heartbeat, fueled by envy or a thirst for power. But we were different. We were a fortress, and Alvin, my little brother, was its unbreachable keep.

He was a force of nature, Alvin. Tough wasn't a strong enough word. He was forged from something harder, something that didn't bend or break. If you had a problem with me, you had a problem with him, and that problem was about to become your worst nightmare. He was my shield, my shadow, the one who’d step in front of a bullet without a second thought, his eyes blazing with a ferocity that could melt steel. We were untouchable, invincible. That’s what we told ourselves. That’s what the streets whispered. We were the number one crew, and no one, absolutely no one, could touch us.

Lashawn, my wife-to-be, my rock, she’d always been there, a dazzling smile that could disarm a battlefield. We were celebrating, the air thick with the sweet scent of victory and the heady perfume of youth. The city was ours, or so it felt. We had outmaneuvered every trap, dodged every bullet, outsmarted every adversary. The thrill of it, the sheer audacity of our existence, was intoxicating. We were artists of survival, choreographing our moves with a precision that left our enemies bewildered.

Then, it happened. It wasn't a storm that brewed, not a warning siren that wailed. It was like the enemy clawed its way out of the moon itself, a sudden, devastating blow that shattered our world into a million jagged pieces. The moon, that silent, watchful eye in the night sky, had always been a symbol of our dominion, a beacon for our exploits. But that night, it became a harbinger of doom, a celestial accomplice to our undoing.

The attack was brutal, swift, and utterly unexpected. It was a sucker punch from the void, a betrayal of the very fabric of reality we thought we understood. We were always prepared, always looking over our shoulders, always planning for the worst. Or so we believed. We thought we had accounted for every variable, every potential threat. But this… this was something else entirely. It was a ghost, a phantom, a force that defied our every calculation.

The aftermath was a blur of chaos and disbelief. The invincibility we’d worn like a second skin had been ripped away, leaving us exposed and vulnerable. The streets that had once sung our praises now seemed to sneer, their silence deafening. The law enforcement that had hounded us now felt like a distant echo, a problem for another lifetime. Our immediate concern was the gaping wound that had been torn through our ranks, through our hearts.

I remember the last time I spoke to Alvin. It’s a conversation etched into my soul, a phantom limb that aches with an intensity that time has failed to dull. Twenty-six years. It feels like a lifetime, and yet, it was just yesterday. A great part of me died with him that day. A piece of my spirit, my confidence, my very essence, was ripped away, leaving a void that has never been filled. I’ve walked through life with a phantom weight on my shoulders, a constant reminder of what was lost.

Alvin was more than a brother; he was a guardian angel with a snarling, protective streak. He was the first to step up, the last to back down. If anyone dared to cross me, they crossed him. And that was a mistake they would regret for all eternity. He was the embodiment of loyalty, a living, breathing testament to the strength of our bond. He was the one who made me feel safe, even in the heart of the storm. And that safety, that illusion of invincibility, was shattered in an instant.

The weight of it all. The “what ifs.” The “should haves.” They are a constant torment. I replay that last conversation over and over, searching for a sign, a clue, anything that I might have missed. Was there a subtle shift in his voice? A flicker of fear in his eyes that I, in my arrogance, failed to see? I should have been on point, more suspicious, more aware. I dropped the ball. My God, my God, have mercy on my miserable soul. Hard times hit us from every direction, and I feel like I failed to shield the one person I was sworn to protect.

I believe, deep in my gut, that the gang task forces were behind my little brother’s death. It’s a conviction that gnaws at me, a burning ember of suspicion that refuses to be extinguished. They wanted us, but they couldn’t get to us. So, they found another way. They targeted the heart, the most vulnerable point. And they succeeded.

Lashawn and I, we ran. We ran for our lives, thousands of miles, a desperate flight from justice, from the ghosts that haunted us. It was a different kind of prison, the constant fear of capture, the gnawing anxiety of being a fugitive. We had to leave it all behind, the life we’d built, the crew, the city that had shaped us. But even in exile, the memory of what happened, the loss of Alvin, followed us like a relentless shadow.

Christmas of 1999. We were on the run, across the country, the holiday spirit a bitter mockery of our situation. The flight from justice was a heavier burden than any physical threat. That whole experience, the constant looking over our shoulders, the isolation, it rides me like a horse, a relentless, unforgiving ride.

I think I separated from Lashawn because I feared for her safety. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being caught in the crossfire, of her becoming another casualty of my choices. It was a selfish act, born of a twisted kind of love, a desperate attempt to protect her from the darkness that clung to me. And this is the first time I've spoken on the real reason we separated for real. The guilt, the fear, it was too much. I pushed her away to keep her safe, a decision that has haunted me for years.

But fate, or perhaps a higher power, has a way of bringing people back together. In 2021, Lashawn and I reconnected. And not just as old friends, but as partners in a new endeavor. We stayed up all night, pouring over plans, fueled by a shared vision. We started a nonprofit. I can’t thank her enough for helping me create something so powerful and great. It feels like a way to give back, to atone for the past, to pay my debt to society. It’s a way to honor Alvin, to channel the energy that once fueled our street battles into something constructive, something that helps others.

May God continue to put the wind up under her wings and help her fly. She deserves all the blessings this world has to offer. God bless her and her mother. And God bless and protect us all. The journey has been long, the scars run deep, but in building something new, something good, I’ve found a flicker of peace, a fragile hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the footprints we left in the dust can lead us to a brighter dawn.