Shots rang out and tires screeched. The whole block woke up that night. Dogs were barking wildly, car alarms were ringing loudly, and men's screams could be heard between the sounds of automatic rifles firing and, in the distance, sirens fast approaching. Clive was the only one left standing. The brutal gun battle took the lives of everyone in his clique. His boss Joe laid motionless in a pool of black liquid. The new moon didn't help his vision any and darkness crept in from every corner. The rival gang stole his car, firing warning shots through the back window as they drove away. With a trunk full of cocaine and millions in unmarked bills, they found the cleaner before the cops figured any of it out.
After a moment of adrenaline relapse, Clive came to his senses. That was the end of the Jamaican Boys. He was the only one left. He dropped his used clip and reloaded. After a quick glimpse around the alley, a rusted-out Mustang stuck out like a sore thumb. He ran for the car, smashed the driver's side window, jumped the car and it came to life on the first pass. "Lucky," he thought. Two shots rang out and the glass in the back busted out. He blindly fired a few shots of his own and floored it.
Marley and his gang would soon start looking for Clive. No one loses $4 million in cash and lives to tell about it; no one except Clive. With a half tank of gas he drove through the night. It was dawn before he arrived in Maryland. There was no way he could go back to New York. A decent looking rest stop looked okay to Clive and he pulled in, just outside of D.C. The gas tank was on 'E' but that didn't matter. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the chaos as possible.
Curious, he searched the Mustang for anything he could take. He opened the trunk. A full armory ready for war greeted him kindly. His eyes watered. "This will work out quite nice. Lucky lucky day," he thought.