On the other side of town, sitting in a blacked out Chevy Suburban, Percy Jackson sat quietly. There was no rush, other than the fact that his girl told him she'd be done in an hour, and it would take him at least half-an-hour to get back to Mid-City. So yeah, this jackass better get a move on, he thought bitterly.
His hands stroked the muzzle of his AR fondly. It was subconscious now. He remembered the first time his father introduced him to ARs. At only three, Percy could only look in amazement as the perfectly black gun was placed in front of him. Aim it at the bad guy, his father had told him. Percy's little small hands barely managed to push the gun an inch. Let me help you, his father had said. His father held the gun, squatting down so that young Percy could grab the trigger. Now, shoot the bad guys. Percy's young self thought he was in a video game.
Eleven years later, when he turned fourteen, his father gave him his own AR. Said he could pick out whatever customization he wanted. Now, shoot the bad guys.
That was his code, ever since he was three. When Percy was first crossed, two years after his father was killed, he had had his loyal men bring the traitor in on his knees. Next came the traitor's family. They had watched as Percy beat the shit out of the traitor, sparing him only when he was in so much pain it would have been merciful to kill him.
Now, his hand subconsciously stroked the loaded gun, waiting for his target to walk out of the house. Any moment now. He wasn't sure if there was any other hostiles in the area, but he didn't give too many shits. None of them would make a difference.
Suddenly, some yelling came out of the house as a scantily-clad woman ran out of the house, yelling curses back at it.
"Bitch, shut the fuck up and get the hell outta here!" A deep black voice replied, throwing more clothes out onto the street. Percy's target walked out of the house, and the two verbally sparred before the woman grabbed her clothes and ran to her car. With a roll of his eyes, Percy's target looked around the neighborhood. His eyes glazed over Percy's car, before darting back to it as his girl, now forgotten about, drove off. He bolted back into the house, not bother to close the doors.
Of course. He was going to play offense. Most tried to. Only the smart ones didn't. Sighing, Percy jumped out of the car and set up behind the hood. He cocked the AR, and waited. He waited until the target ran back out with a pistol. Two suppressed shots – center of mass to stagger, head to kill – and the target was down. On the porch. Perfect.
Percy threw the AR back in the car. No movement from any houses yet. He quickly jumped into the driver's seat, starting the car. With no hurry whatsoever, Percy peeled out of the street.
A loud bang, and suddenly his rear window was hit. "FUCK!" Percy swerved, pushing the driver's side away from the street. His hands grabbed the muzzle of his AR. His hands opened the car door. His feet landed on the hard asphalt. His hands pulled the gun to his shoulder, and his head focused on the task at hand.
Muscle memory drove him more than anything. He was barely afraid. Recently, after he had met Annabeth, he had started to fear more. Fear of losing her drove him. She wasn't just his, she was his new everything.
Bullets littered his brand-fucking-new car. His sight focused on the first shooter. Two shots, he was down.
Tyrone hadn't really cared much about his life. Sure, it was fun being alive, but it also sorta sucked. Death wouldn't matter that much. Death was a friend of his, anyways.
When he was a baby, his father was killed in a turf war. When he was 14, his best friend was shot by cops for smoking crack. When he was 16, his dog had been caught in cross-fire.
His mother was a crack addict, and his real family was a gang. Once, he had wanted to be an astronaut. He had wanted to live. Now, he couldn't care less. Sure, drugs and girls were great, but it didn't matter to him.
Yet, for some reason, when he saw his brother fall next to him in his bedroom window, after a red dot appeared on his chest, he was scared. Scared of dying, scared of the next world, scared of losing what he had left in his life.
Tyrone fell to the floor with a loud thud after the red dot hit him too.
The guns slowly fell silent. Babies kept crying – they always did. Percy dropped his spent mag and reached into the car to grab two more. He surveyed the rest of the car. Anything of importance?
Annabeth's college chart. She had been working on it with him the other day and had left it in the car. He grabbed it from the back of the car seat. Anything else?
Nope.
Percy pulled an incendiary grenade from his belt, then walked away from the car. Once his feet had moved him a safe distance from the car, his arm tossed the projectile backwards. The car caught fire with a loud bang, causing car alarms to go off across the block.
His hand moved to his pocket. Feeling his slick phone in his hands, Percy dialed up his second-in-command. "Mohammed, dawg, can you pick me up? ASAP? That target was more of a nest than I thought."