It’s closer to three weeks when I finally get the call, a week before the first day of spring. But it feels like summer. Naz says it’s going down tomorrow, and that I don’t need to bring anything. It must’ve been a long three weeks for Naz, as there can’t possibly be anything left for him to do. He spends most of his time back at the Normandy: a high-rise hotel in Aquinas Grove. The last of the Apostles are nowhere to be found. Naz has even defaced most of their graffiti on the streets; spray paint his weapon of choice.

Tomorrow comes, and I can’t help but hope today will be the day: the day Naz discovers the answer to his question—that there are no answers. Things have been normal with school; Coach, and Soul, and I have decided to give up the AAU charade. The truth is so much easier to keep up with—well, some of the truth. I told Coach I quit. Of course, he probably never believed I was on the team. I don’t go to school today but instead get on the Helix and take the twenty-minute ride to the site of the Aquinas Grove riot last year, now simply known as the Ghost Store and den of the AG Killers. I told coach I was going home to Soldiers’ Plank to meet with my dad. He probably knows I’m up to—no good.

I can see the monstrosity from the Helix, and it looks like something out of a dystopian nightmare. My stop is two blocks past my destination, which is a convenient place to meet Naz and go over any last-minute details—if there are any.

As I come out of the small terminal, Naz stands leaning against a light pole as an irrelevant figure against the backdrop of what I assume is a typical bustling Aquinas Grove morning. He leads the way as if he’s walked this path before. I’m sure he has, mapped it out in his mind and on foot.

I break the stoic silence. “So … where’s the rest of our gang?”

Our pace quickens.

“Patience. I told you I’d take care of it,” he says.

“You did.”

After walking a block, the bustling morning scene has dissipated to only Naz and me. Around the corner looms Major General. I steel myself. When we round the corner, I see Skinny and go deep into my fighting stance, one hand low and the other high prepared to attack. I lash out with a backfist to the bridge of the nose followed by a sidekick to the solar plexus, which backs him up convincingly. I land three more blows before Naz grabs me from behind.

“Stop!” Naz yells, probably holding me with all his might.

It immediately occurs to me that Naz is not talking to Skinny but me. Skinny must be stunned but makes no effort to defend himself other than attempting to protect his face.

“He’s on our side,” Naz explains.

“What?!” I struggle, confused.

“He’s on our side,” Naz repeats. “He’s not one of the Apostles.”

“Let me go,” I demand.

“Don’t let ’im go … not if he’s gonna hit me again.” Skinny attends to his bloody nose and lip.

“Wordsmith?” Naz tightens his grip.

“I’m not gonna hit ’im,” I yell.

Naz lets me go, and I adjust my clothes and regain my composure.

“What’s goin’ on?” I ask.

“Skinny’s here to help. He’s not a part of the gang, any gang. He used to be, before Roffio, now he’s sort of an informant. I ran into him when I got out of the hospital. His half brother is still in the gang, and he agreed to help me if I promised to spare his brother when the time came.”

I finally gather myself and regroup after hearing this unexpected information. “You gotta start telling me stuff.”

Naz nods.

Skinny wipes his nose again. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard … and I didn’t know who you were that day.”

I look at Skinny. It’s going to take a minute for this to sink in. “So now what?” I pace back and forth. “Wait … let me guess. We pretend we’re the Incubus Apostles while you get answers.”

“I told you he was smart,” Naz says to Skinny. “Show him your arm.”

Skinny angles his forearm to reveal a tattoo of the symbols: the sword, the serpent and the eye that formed the letters, IA. I scoff.

“It’s not a tattoo. I drew it on this morning … so I can look the part.”

“Skinny’s in school to be a graphic artist.”

I’m impressed but refuse to show it. I’m still not ready to forgive Skinny for the concussion he gave me two months ago. “Where’s yours?” I ask, mocking Naz, knowing he would never stoop to that level.

He raises an eyebrow. “Let’s go.”

It’s only then I notice Naz has an armband covering where an IA tattoo would go. I might be endangering the mission as my forearms are exposed, and I have no IA tattoo.

“Naz. What are we gonna do about this: no tattoos?” I stick out my arms.

He stops, probably thinking. “Keep ’em folded and out of sight.”

We walk for a good amount of time around the perimeter of the fence to the back of the massive structure where Naz has found or created an opening.

When we come through the fence and onto the blacktop parking lot, it seems to have gotten hotter. The sun beams off the pavement, and up ahead a small heat-induced mirage appears as a puddle and then disappears. A massive metal door slides open on a loading dock and what looks like a small army emerges. This meeting is going to be interesting.

They are dressed in different colors but all dark: maroon, navy, black, and brown, from head to toe. From this distance, they could all be wearing jumpsuits. Skinny and I flank Naz, and there is no hesitation in his gate. He’s on a mission. The problem is, so are the hundred plus gang members in front of me. They all wear ball caps that make me think of my baseball days. As we get closer, I notice they all have on work clothes: pants and shirts that match, not jumpsuits. And boots. They’re well-organized. I’ll give them that.

“What makes you think they won’t have weapons?” I ask under my breath.

“It’s not like they need them. You scared, Wordsmith?” Naz teases, quietly.

“Petrified, Tin Man,” I murmur, calmly. The truth is, curiosity cancels out my fear.

They all wear brass belt buckles with the initials AG. They’re clean cut with an age range of maybe fifteen to twenty, maybe even older. Some of them have on training masks—what da?

I’m assuming the one front and center is the leader. He wears a mask, which hides the qualities about him that would help me determine his age. He walks right up to Naz and stops a foot in front of him. He’s slightly shorter than Naz but about the same build. But there’s something different about him, his swagger, something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Half of the gang members continue past us until we are surrounded. Well, so much for putting our backs up against the fence. Retreat is also out of the question. Your move, Naz.

“Who are you?” says the leader, his voice synthesized through the mask he wears.

Sweet!

Naz doesn’t answer.

The leader lashes out, doubling Naz over with a punch to the stomach.

Observe, discourage, and report. Observe, discourage, and report. I calm myself.

Skinny has taken a step forward. Two AG Killers almost as big as he is step to him, and he stands down.

“Who … are you?” the leader asks again.

Naz comes up slowly. “Incubus Apostles.”

He appears to look into Naz’s eyes. “You’re lying.” He nods to one of the other gang members who moves in front of me. He grabs my left forearm and shows it to the leader. I don’t resist. So much for hiding my lack of a tattoo.

This time the leader hits Naz with a backfist that has more the quality of insult than injury.

“Naz Andersen.” Naz spits blood on the ground next to the leader, the result of a busted lip.

“Third time’s a charm,” says the leader in that haunting synthesized voice.

He lashes out at Naz again, but this time Naz blocks the punch and goes into a fighting stance. The leader goes into a fighting stance of his own, and I hear the entire army around me prepare to engage. What are you thinking, Naz?

“Stand down,” the leader yells, and the small army that surrounds us goes into parade rest.

Impressive.

“So, you’re the one who killed Roffio,” the leader says.

Naz doesn’t answer; he waits, but he doesn’t have to wait long, as the leader is on him in a second with a series of hand and foot techniques that would impress the most discriminating martial arts aficionado. He’s obviously taken Naz by surprise, putting him in a totally defensive posture. Surprisingly, the leader manages to break through Naz’s defenses, which only serves to wake Naz up. When that happens, it’s all she wrote, which are fitting words.

In seconds, Naz ends the charade. He catches the leader’s punch and overpowers him, making the leader hit himself in the face with his own fist. The action causes the leader’s hat and mask to fly off. His … wait! Her? Her hair cascades past her shoulders. Naz, apparently not noticing, never lets go of her fist. He spins her around, switching to her wrist, pulling her arm behind her back and up until she screams in pain. It’s only then Naz gets it. He’s just beaten up a girl, a beautiful girl, a deadly, beautiful girl—be still my beating heart. I finally close my mouth.

“I’m sorry.” Naz lets her go and hurries to face her.

She immediately knees him in the groin—ooh—sending him to the ground on his side. He holds himself, rolling back in forth, apparently in excruciating pain—so much for chivalry. Snickers come from the gang members around us.

“Now, why are you here?” The leader flexes her arm back and forth, relieving the pain Naz has just inflicted on it.

She looks to be in her late teens, maybe even twenty.

“I’m here to talk to your leader, your boss,” Naz struggles to say.

“Leader? I’m the only leader here.”

“The one Roffio answered to,” Naz fishes. “Who is your boss?” Naz yells out of frustration.

He must be searching all of their thoughts now, and my guess is he’s finding nothing.

“Who are you talking to?” she asks, looking around them. “Roffio answered to only Roffio, and he was no friend of ours. So, Naz Andersen, you did us a favor.” She extends a hand to him.

He looks at her hand apprehensively, takes it, and gets up. “I didn’t kill Roffio. He died in the fire. It was an accident.”

“Well, may he rest in peace. What can the Aquinas Grove Killers do for you, Naz Andersen?” she says, statesmen-like.

Naz stumbles around, just now gaining his footing. He looks at me.

“Do you have knowledge of anyone known as the boss who Roffio might have been answering to?” asks Naz.

She shakes her head, and for the first time, she gives a look of concern and sincerity.

“I do have one favor. I need to bring the rest of the Incubus Apostles out in the open. I need them to know that the AG Killers took out Naz Andersen, took out the Invincible Assassin.” Naz looks back at Skinny.

Skinny nods.

“It will be our pleasure,” she says.

“Thank you. You guys don’t seem like any gang I’ve ever seen in Marshal Park.”

“We’re not. Our job is to keep drugs off the street and gangs like the Incubus Apostles off of our streets and out of our neighborhoods.”

I have to stop and replay in my brain what just came through my ears. Naz just shakes his head, probably looking for his playback button as well.

“Don’t believe everything you hear on the streets,” she adds.

“What’s your name?” I blurt out. I know she’s too old for me, but for the first time, I feel like I’m officially in love.

“I go by Stripe.”

We all run out of words, but a connection is made. And I think, for the first time, there’s hope for these streets. There’s hope for the Exclave.

Stripe advises Naz to give it a few weeks and by then whatever is left of the Incubus Apostles will be confident the streets are safe for them to wreak havoc on again. Naz, Skinny, and I go our separate ways when we leave Major General. My ride back to Coach’s house on the Helix is one in deep thought.