Gunfire ripped through the laundromat like thunder in a tin can.
J-Rock hit the ground hard, the smell of rust and dust filling his lungs. Bullets chewed through the old washers, sending sparks and shards of metal flying. Dre's boys dove for cover, cursing and drawing their own weapons.
"Who the hell is this?!" Dre roared, firing back toward the back door.
J-Rock didn't waste time answering. He crawled low, keeping the heavy machines between himself and the gunfire. His mind was racing — this wasn't random. Someone knew about this meeting. Someone wanted him dead, and maybe Dre too.
The rain outside was pounding harder now, mixing with the sharp crack of gunfire.
One of Dre's men caught a bullet to the shoulder and went down screaming. Dre cursed again, leaning out just long enough to squeeze off two quick shots. The shooting paused for a heartbeat — just enough of a break for J-Rock to move.
He bolted toward the side door, heart pounding. But as he pushed it open, the cold rain hit his face — and a dark figure was waiting outside, gun raised.
J-Rock twisted instinctively, the shot grazing his hoodie instead of his chest. He slammed his shoulder into the gunman, sending them both crashing into the wet alley. The pistol skidded across the ground.
In the chaos, Dre shouted from inside. "Rock! Move!"
J-Rock scrambled to his feet, snatched up the dropped gun, and sprinted down the alley. His sneakers splashed through puddles, the cold rain stinging his face. Behind him, more gunshots cracked, but he didn't look back.
He turned a corner and kept running until the sounds of the fight faded into the distance. His breath came in sharp bursts, his mind replaying the attack.
This wasn't just an ambush.
This was a message.
Someone wanted him to know that nowhere in Southpoint was safe.