Meech sat in the back of a stolen Lincoln Town Car, jaw tight, knuckles white around a burner phone. The neon from a fried-chicken joint bled across his face. Beside him, Terry was silent—not the calm silence of strategy, but the heavy quiet of a man deciding whether to pull his own brother back from the edge.

The war hasn't started yet. This was just the prayer.

The car pulled into an abandoned auto-body garage. Inside, Lucille's youngest, Nicole, sat on a crate of unsold designer jeans—the BMF merchandise they'd been pushing through Atlanta malls. She wasn't supposed to be there.

"Mom doesn't find out." Meech's voice dropped to a whisper. "But right now, we don't survive without knowing who the snake is. One night. That's all."

"I already did. You've got three hours to get out of Detroit. Take your wife, take that Cadillac, and don't look back. Or stay. And explain to Lamar why his last three shipments got busted by the feds—shipments you knew about."