From Bullets To Billions

Chapter 390: Jett The Enforcer (Part 1)

The Black Hounds were not simply another street gang. In the hierarchy of Notting Hill’s underworld they had the label of an Organised crew; the Black Hounds functioned like a small, efficient machine designed to extract advantage and maintain control.

Only one force in the area eclipsed them in reach, the Crime Syndicate higher up the chain, but between the Syndicate and the Hounds, there was a balance of power. The Hounds moved with confidence because they had fewer people to fear and even fewer to answer to.

Numbers meant a lot in this city, and the Hounds had them. The Chalkline boys boasted volume, loudness, and swagger, but volume didn’t always translate into discipline. In a direct test of organized violence, the Chalkline boys were merely noise next to the Hounds’ precision.

The Black Hounds could take on more than one kind of opponent and come away with territory, influence, and, if anyone tried to push back, a reputation that made others think twice.

Within that machine, three names rose above the rest, Darius Vale, Sable Vix, and Jett Corbin. Each carried a particular reputation that, when combined, made for a potent leadership triumvirate. Darius was the mind at the top, the cold strategist who kept the gears oiled and the calendar clean of risky impulses.

Sable was the tactician, the person who thought five moves ahead and could map out an operation like a chessboard. Jett, by contrast, was the contact-man with the muscle, known by everyone in the Hounds simply as the Enforcer.

When Jett decided he would act, manpower moved, doors opened, and the night bent to his will. He did not need to dominate people through intellect; he dominated them through a simple, unflinching application of force.

Tonight, Jett was at a restaurant with his people, and despite his job title, he hadn’t appointed himself to any ascetic diet. He’d ordered like someone with an appetite carved out by hard living: a sixteen-ounce steak, a full rack of ribs, and half a roast chicken.

Each entrée came armored by a pile of carbohydrates, fries, rice, and almost an entire loaf of bread. His companions watched him with a mixture of admiration and quiet calculation; Jett could dispatch food at an alarming rate without looking gaunt or drained.

He wasn’t towering, exactly, bigger than most, but not a mountain, but he had an appetite that betrayed a hunger beyond ordinary hunger. The men around him ate at ease; the extra plates were plainly Jett’s.

Conversation moved around the table like a tide. Men shrugged, forked food into their mouths, and continued the business of being men of their world. The topics were the usual mixture of territory, debts, and whether a certain bar had paid its protection fee on time.

Then, somewhere between the rib rack and the second portion of fries, a man at the table picked up his phone. He listened, frowned, asked a few curt questions, and placed the handset down. For a moment the room quieted, the kind of quiet that makes the edges of people sharper.

“I have some news,” the man said finally, his voice a notch lower than the hum of the restaurant. “It’s about the two we sent. They’re in a cell. Their documents are being processed. They’re being moved to prison.”

The words landed between them like ice. Jett stopped, fork halfway to his mouth. For a man who had stared down more than a few rough scenarios, the calm exhaustion of his surprise was telling. The expectation had been something different, perhaps a beatdown, maybe a bruise. Prison was a different level of consequence.

“What… what?” Jett said after a beat. He blinked, then reached for his steak, but the bite sat unchewed in his mouth. “This is the first time. Isn’t bail set up? Doesn’t someone fix this before it gets that far?”

The man who delivered the news shrugged. “Everything’s been expedited. The processing, the paperwork, someone put pressure on the right people. We can’t get them out. Not yet.”

Emotions moved across the table in small gestures, raised eyebrows, the subtle clenching of hands around utensils. Jett was not a man given to melodrama, but even he could be thrown by the way the gears had turned.

Vivian was supposed to have eyes in these places. She was someone who handled the cleanups, the public eyes, the bluster of the local police. Jett wanted to know who had made a move that bypassed Vivian’s channels. Had someone found a new lane to traffic through? Had the opposition reached deeper into the municipal framework than anyone had expected?

“Who could have done this?” he asked. The question was a probe; it wasn’t just about the two men in the cell. It was about a breach, a chink in the network.

From the corner a younger voice answered, cautious and chilled with uncertainty. “The other side has better connections, it seems. The ones who wanted those two neutralized had someone on the inside. They pushed the process through faster than we could handle.”

Jett set his fork down slowly. He did not blink, but his mind was already moving, two steps, five steps. He chewed, not because he needed to swallow, but because the act bought time.

The Stable family were already wealthy, so If the man who had called for the hit had money couldn’t deal with the problem, then the Hounds were looking at a different kind of problem, someone who financed consequences instead of merely buying muscle.

“If that’s the case,” Jett said finally, “then the money route didn’t work. They used connections. Fine. Then we’ll do what we always have done if all else fails, apply force.”

There was a thin humor in his voice, but the threat was a physical thing.

“And first,” Jett added, “why don’t we pay a dear visit to Anton, because If I’m getting directly involved he’s going to have to pay up, more than he already has done, especially if this is a hard job.”