The Brutal Revenge

Chapter 9: The Rising Tension

Jones paced inside the dimly lit classroom, his mind racing as Mike delivered the grim news. The fight with Clinton’s gang last night had been bad, but this was worse, one of Jones’s own had been compromised.

“Are you sure about this?” Jones asked, his sharp gaze locked on Mike.

Mike nodded. “Yeah. I caught Trey sneaking out of the hideout. He met with Dwayne.”

Jones’s jaw tightened. Dwayne was Clinton’s right-hand man, the one who handled his dirty work. If Trey had switched sides, it meant Clinton was getting bold—too bold.

“We need to handle this now,” Jones said. He turned to Marcus, his second-in-command. “Call everyone in. Full meeting. No exceptions.”

Marcus pulled out his phone, already typing. “On it.”

Jones clenched his fists. If there was a traitor in his ranks, there would be no mercy.

An hour later, the hideout was packed, the air thick with tension. Every member of Jones’s crew stood in a semicircle, watching their leader.

Jones stood in the center, arms crossed. His voice was steady but cold.

“One of us is working with Clinton.”

The silence was heavy, but then came the murmurs—low whispers, accusations flaring between glances.

Jones raised a hand, cutting through the noise. “We’re handling this now. If you’ve got something to say, speak up.”

Silence.

Then, Jones’s eyes landed on Trey. His gut told him everything he needed to know. Trey had been acting off for weeks, disappearing when things got serious, avoiding direct confrontations.

“Trey.” Jones’s voice was sharp. “Stand up.”

Trey hesitated before rising. His face was pale, but his expression was defiant. “What? You think I’m the rat?”

Mike stepped forward. “I saw you with Dwayne.”

Trey’s eyes darted around the room. “I... It’s not like that.”

“Then explain,” Jones said.

Trey swallowed hard. “Clinton offered me money. But I didn’t take it, I swear. I only went to see what they were up to.”

Jones studied him, reading every twitch of his expression. His gut told him Trey was lying.

“I don’t believe you,” Jones said, his voice like steel. “And I don’t take chances.”

Trey took a step back, shaking his head. “Jones, wait—”

Two of Jones’s men grabbed him. He struggled, but they held firm.

Jones stepped closer. “I’m letting you walk away. That’s more than Clinton would do for you.”

Trey’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t argue. He just nodded and let them drag him out.

Jones turned back to the crew. “We don’t tolerate betrayal. Clinton thinks he can play these games with us? He’s wrong.”

The room was silent. But the message was clear—no one crossed Jones and walked away unscathed.

Later that night, Jones sat alone in the hideout, staring at the map of the campus. Marcus walked in, sitting across from him.

“You did the right thing,” Marcus said.

Jones didn’t look up. “Maybe. But now Clinton knows we’re onto him.”

Marcus smirked. “Then we make the first move.”

Jones exhaled slowly. “We hit Clinton where it hurts.”

Mike joined them at the table. “What’s the plan?”

Jones tapped a spot on the map. “Clinton’s base—the student lounge in the west wing. That’s where his top guys stay.”

Marcus nodded. “We’re hitting deep in their territory.”

Jones’s lips curled into a smirk. “That’s exactly the point.”

He leaned forward, his voice low. “We go in fast. Take out the guards. Make it clear that Clinton isn’t safe anywhere.”

Marcus cracked his knuckles. “I like it.”

Jones looked at his crew. “We move in one hour. Gear up.”

The night air was cold as Jones and his crew moved like shadows across campus. They stuck to the alleyways, staying in the blind spots of the security cameras.

The student lounge loomed ahead. Jones spotted two guards standing outside, smoking and laughing, completely unaware of what was coming.

Jones gave a small nod.

Marcus moved first, slipping behind one guard and putting him in a chokehold before he could react. The other barely had time to gasp before Mike drove a fist into his gut, then slammed him into the wall.

Jones stepped in, pressing a knife to the guy’s throat. “Where’s Clinton?”

The guard coughed. “Inside—upstairs.”

Jones knocked him out with a swift hit to the jaw.

“Let’s move.”

Inside, Clinton’s men were relaxed, playing cards, drinking. They didn’t even see it coming.

Jones grabbed a chair and smashed it into the nearest guy’s back. Marcus tackled another, fists flying. The room erupted into chaos.

Mike took out two guys before they could even get up. Jones spun, dodging a punch, and slammed his elbow into an opponent’s face.

Within minutes, it was over. Clinton’s men groaned on the ground, completely wiped out.

Jones grabbed one by the collar. “Where’s Clinton?”

The guy coughed. “He ain’t here, he got called away.”

Jones’s fists clenched. Clinton had slipped away again.

Marcus wiped blood off his knuckles. “At least we sent a message.”

Jones nodded, but his mind was already racing ahead. Clinton wouldn’t take this lying down. The real war was just beginning.

He turned to his crew. “Clinton thinks he can outplay us? He’s wrong.”

And with that, they disappeared into the night, leaving destruction in their wake.