Go Help Her
Go Help Her
The black SUV had been on the road for nearly twenty minutes when it finally slowed and turned into a quiet, tree-lined commercial strip. Afternoon light slanted across the storefronts.
When the vehicle stopped in front of a salon with frosted glass doors and elegant gold lettering, Carla stared at the building as if it had personally insulted her. She had questions, but in the meantime, she kept them to herself.
She stepped out after Carolina, the soles of her shoes hitting the warm pavement. The air smelled of exhaust, cut flowers from a nearby shop, and the faint chemical sweetness that always drifted from high-end salons. Carla’s voice came out sharper than she intended.
“You’ve got to be joking. The Cobras are still at large, our warehouses are getting hit one after another by the cops, and you bring us to a salon? I thought we were going to lock down the remaining spots, put real security in place, not sit around getting our nails done.”
Carolina turned her head slowly. The look she gave Carla was cold enough to cut through her skin.
“Watch your tone, Carla. I am still your Queen. You will speak to me with respect.” She adjusted the cuff of her jacket, calm and unhurried. “Yes, we are at war. That does not mean I stop taking care of myself. Appearance is part of power. You should try it sometime. Sit down. Get your nails done. Breathe for an hour. The world will not end.”
Carla’s jaw tightened, but she swallowed the next argument. Two King’s Gold men took positions near the entrance while Carolina walked inside as if she owned the place.
The salon smelled of expensive shampoo, acetone, and warm towels. Soft music played from hidden speakers. Carolina was guided to a chair, a black cape fastened around her shoulders, and technicians began working on her hair and hands with quiet efficiency.
Carla did not sit. She remained standing near the front windows, body angled so she could see both the street and the interior. Every few minutes she stepped outside to speak to the two guards.
“Eyes up. No phones. No cigarettes. If a car lingers or anyone looks too interested, you say something immediately. Clear?”
Both men nodded. The afternoon stretched. Clients came and went. Scissors snipped. Dryers hummed. Carolina’s voice occasionally rose in casual conversation with the stylists.
Carla’s shoulders never fully lowered. Her hand stayed close to the weapon under her jacket. Two full hours passed without incident. When Carolina finally stood, hair and nails finished, she looked refreshed and completely unbothered. She paid in cash, thanked the staff, and led the way back to the SUV.
They pulled into traffic. For a short while the only sounds were the low engine and the soft rush of air through the vents. Carolina began speaking about new rotation schedules for the remaining warehouses, her tone practical, almost conversational. Carla listened with half an ear, eyes still scanning the mirrors.
The SUV suddenly braked hard. Carla’s hand flew to the grab handle. Two cars had swung into position—one blocking the front, one cutting off the rear—trapping them on the narrow street. Doors opened in near unison. Seven men stepped out with weapons already raised and pointed at the bulletproof glass. Sunlight glinted off metal. The air outside seemed to go still.
"Fuck! This is why I always trust my fucking instincts," Carla muttered.
Her pulse slammed hard in her throat. She calculated angles, distances, the thickness of the glass, the number of rounds they might absorb before something critical failed.
Every instinct told her to fight as she reached for her gun. The math told her they would lose. Against every rule she had ever lived by, she pulled her phone from her pocket, typed a short message to Lancelot, and sent it.
'Need you. Now. Black Sailors. We’re boxed in. Cole Street. Probably ten minutes out from your location. Get here quick.'
.
.
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At the Cimaro estate, the bathroom was still warm and humid from Gabriella’s shower. She stood at the marble sink, water running over her hands, washing away the last of the gunpowder residue from the morning’s training with Alphonso. The satellite phone on the counter vibrated once, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She shut off the faucet, dried her hands quickly, and answered.
“Lancelot.”
His voice was tight, controlled, but urgency ran underneath it. “There's a bit of a development. Your mother is cornered. Black Sailors—they're who's after her. They boxed her vehicle on the street with several armed men. I’ve been ordered to move the Knights and extract her. If we don’t go, the odds are high they kill her right there in the open. That would give us her death without us having to take the shot ourselves.”
Gabriella stared at her own reflection in the mirror. A droplet of water ran down her temple. She could hear her own breathing. She thought about the situation for a while, considering all the possibilities and trying to come up with a decision. Finally, she made up her mind.
“No,” she said. The word came out steady.
“My mother's pretty hard to kill. If she survives and the Knights never showed up, she will never trust you again. The entire arrangement collapses and we may not get a chance to get her out and get me in. If she dies at the hands of the Sailors, the clan fractures on their terms, not mine. I need her removed by us, under conditions we control, so the seat of power transfers cleanly. Go help her. Keep her alive. Keep the plan intact.”
Silence stretched across the line for a full second. The Knight considered the orders he had gotten and saw the wisdom in them.
“Understood,” Lancelot said. “We’re moving.”
He hung up. Within minutes, the remaining Knights were armed, loading into vehicles, engines turning over hard.
The convoy tore out of the estate grounds and headed toward the ambush at speed, the decision made and the consequences already in motion.