His Streets,Not Mine By: A.Powell
Priest stared at his phone so hard his vision started to blur.
Call failed.
Again.
Call failed.
Again.
His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
“Pick up the fucking phone, Peaches…” he muttered, already pacing across the suite.
He hit her location again.
Unknown.
That made his stomach drop.
Peaches always kept it on.
Always.
At first, he told himself maybe her phone died. Maybe she was in the parking garage. Maybe she was in the elevator at the doctor’s office.
But deep down?
He knew.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
He dialed again, pressing the phone so hard to his ear his knuckles turned white.
Nothing.
Then—
straight to voicemail.
Priest froze.
For a second, the whole room went silent around him. The music in the lounge downstairs, the clinking glasses, the city noise beyond the windows—none of it mattered.
Only that voicemail.
Only the sick feeling crawling up his spine.
He snatched his keys off the counter so fast they crashed to the floor. One of his boys, Rome, looked up from the couch.
“Yo, what happened?”
Priest didn’t even look at him.
“Peaches not answering.”
Rome sat up.
“So?”
Priest finally turned, eyes dark and wild.
“Her location says unknown.”
That was all it took.
Rome stood immediately. “I’m coming.”
“Nah,” Priest snapped, already striding for the door. “Call everybody. Now. Find out where she was supposed to be.”
Rome was already pulling out his phone. “Say less.”
⸻
Priest flew through traffic like a madman, one hand on the wheel, the other redialing her number over and over.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Voicemail.
Each unanswered call made his chest tighter.
Then Rome called.
“I got the address. OB office on West 34th. She had an appointment at 2:30.”
Priest cut across two lanes, tires screeching.
“I’m five minutes out.”
“You want me to send the guys?”
“Send everybody.”
His voice was low.
Too low.
That was how Rome knew somebody was about to die.
⸻
At the doctor’s office, the receptionist looked up, startled, when Priest stormed in like a hurricane.
Suit wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot. Rage leaking off him.
“Where is she?”
“Sir—”
“Peaches. Brown skin, pregnant, black hair, was here an hour ago. Where the fuck is she?”
The receptionist blinked, frightened. “She… she checked out maybe forty minutes ago.”
Priest’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“Did she leave alone?”
“I—I think so—”
A nurse in the hallway interrupted, face pale. “Wait. Was she wearing a cream jumpsuit?”
Priest turned to her so fast she flinched.
“Yeah.”
The nurse swallowed. “I saw… I saw a few men near the side lot. I thought maybe they were with her. She looked upset.”
Priest went still.
Dead still.
“What men?”
“There were… maybe four? One grabbed her arm and she started pulling away, but—”
Priest was already moving.
He sprinted out the side exit and into the lot.
Empty.
Just a dropped purse lying near the curb.
Peaches’ purse.
He stopped so abruptly it felt like the world punched him in the chest.
For a second, he couldn’t breathe.
Then he slowly bent down and picked it up.
Her wallet was still inside.
Her lip gloss.
Her appointment paperwork.
A tiny ultrasound print folded halfway out.
Priest stared at the black-and-white image with shaking hands.
His baby.
His fucking baby.
Something in him snapped.
“PRIEST!” Rome’s voice echoed as two black trucks pulled into the lot, his men jumping out.
Priest held up the ultrasound, then looked at the scrape marks on the pavement.
A broken nail.
Blood.
Just a little.
But enough.
Enough to turn him into something unrecognizable.
Rome saw it too. “Oh… shit.”
Priest’s voice came out cold.
“She fought.”
Nobody said a word.
Priest crouched, studying the ground like a hunter. Tire marks. Fresh. Heavy tread. Van or SUV.
He stood slowly.
“Check the cameras.”
Rome nodded and started barking orders.
Two men rushed inside.
Another started scanning the building perimeter.
Priest looked down at Peaches’ phone case lying half under a parked car—cracked, but no phone inside.
That was why her location went dark.
They’d destroyed it.
On purpose.
His eyes lifted.
Murderous.
“This wasn’t random.”
Rome’s face hardened. “You thinking who I’m thinking?”
Priest’s silence was answer enough.
The girl from the lounge.
The one who had walked out with him the night Peaches showed up.
The one Peaches looked at.
The one who looked way too calm when she left.
Or worse—
Someone from Priest’s past.
Someone who knew exactly how to hurt him.
⸻
A few minutes later, one of the men came running from inside the building.
“We got camera footage.”
Priest turned. “Show me.”
On the phone screen, grainy surveillance footage played from the side lot.
Peaches stepped out, one hand on her stomach, the other holding her purse.
She looked around.
Then a black SUV rolled up fast.
Too fast.
Two men jumped out first. Then another from the back. One grabbed her from behind.
Peaches screamed.
Even with no sound, Priest could see it.
She fought like hell—kicking, scratching, twisting—but then one of them yanked her by the wrists while another clamped a hand over her mouth.
She was crying.
Begging.
And then—
She clutched her stomach.
Trying to shield the baby.
Priest’s breathing changed.
Became shallow.
Dangerous.
Rome looked at him. “Priest…”
Then the fourth man stepped out of the driver’s side.
Wearing gloves.
Hat low.
Face partly hidden.
But when he turned just enough—
Priest recognized the tattoo on his neck.
A snake wrapped around a cross.
His eyes widened.
“No…”
Rome frowned. “Who is that?”
Priest’s voice was pure venom.
“Marlo.”
Rome went still.
“Marlo’s supposed to be dead.”
Priest’s lip curled.
“Apparently the devil kept him.”
⸻
The air changed.
Everybody felt it.
Because Marlo wasn’t just an enemy.
He was the kind of man who didn’t just kill.
He made people suffer first.
And he hated Priest with a level of obsession that bordered on insanity.
Years ago, Priest had ruined his empire, took his money, his corners, his people.
And rumor had it—his woman, too.
Now Marlo had Peaches.
Pregnant.
Vulnerable.
And somewhere out there… terrified.
Priest took one long breath, then looked at every man around him.
“No police.”
Rome nodded immediately.
“What’s the move?”
Priest stared at the frozen frame of Peaches fighting in the backseat.
His voice dropped to a lethal whisper.
“The move?”
He slid his gun from the back of his waistband and cocked it.
“We burn this whole fucking city down until I get her back.”
⸻
Meanwhile…
Peaches woke up dazed.
Her wrists burned.
Her head throbbed.
She was tied to a metal chair in a cold, dim room that smelled like rust, bleach, and old blood.
Her breathing quickened.
“No… no… no…”
Her hands immediately moved to her stomach.
Still there.
Still okay.
She exhaled a shaky sob.
“Please… please be okay…”
A slow clap echoed from the shadows.
Peaches looked up through tears.
A man stepped forward.
Tall. Dark coat. Snake-and-cross tattoo crawling up his neck.
Cold smile.
“Well, well…” he said softly. “The pretty little mother of Priest’s child.”
Peaches’ face twisted in fear.
“Who are you?”
The man crouched in front of her, tilting his head.
“The reason your man is about to learn… everything he loves can bleed.”
Peaches swallowed hard, tears slipping down her face.
“If this is about Priest—”
“Oh, it is,” Marlo said, smiling wider. “And sweetheart?”
He placed a hand lightly on her stomach.
Peaches jerked violently. “DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Marlo laughed.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Stress isn’t good for the baby.”
Her chest heaved.
“You sick bastard…”
His eyes glittered.
“Tell me something, Peaches…”
He leaned in close.
“When Priest has to choose between saving you…”
His hand slowly pressed against her belly.
“…or saving the baby…”
Peaches went pale.
“…which one you think he’ll pick?”
Reading "His Streets, Not Mine" brought to mind how suspenseful storytelling can deeply engage readers by plunging them into the emotional turmoil of the characters involved. The vivid depiction of Priest's frantic attempts to reach Peaches and the chilling abduction scene create a sense of urgency that keeps you turning pages. From personal experience as a reader of crime thrillers, the effectiveness lies in the author's meticulous build-up of tension, not just through action but with psychological insight into fear, desperation, and determination. Priest’s relentless calling, the anxiety about lost location signals, and the discovery of Peaches' personal belongings powerfully convey his rising dread. Significantly, the symbolic ultrasound image representing their unborn child adds a poignant layer to the story—a reminder of what's at stake beyond the immediate physical danger. This element elevates the narrative from a mere kidnapping tale to one filled with personal loss and emotional gravity. The presence of Marlo, characterized by his snake and cross tattoo, introduces a formidable antagonist whose past connection and obsession with Priest intensify the conflict. This dynamic reflects how long-standing rivalries can exacerbate personal threats, a theme often explored in real-life situations involving feuds or vendettas. An aspect that resonated with me was the depiction of loyalty and camaraderie through Rome’s swift response and the coordinated efforts to locate Peaches. Such portrayals affirm the theme of brotherhood and collective resolve under extreme stress. Additionally, the story’s decision to exclude police involvement and rely instead on personal forces hints at a shadow world where individuals must navigate their own justice, a common motif in urban crime genres. For those interested in suspense and emotional depth, this story offers both. I recommend paying attention to the narrative’s pacing and how it skillfully balances action with moments of quiet tension—like Priest’s inner turmoil and the chilling anticipation of confrontations ahead. Overall, "His Streets, Not Mine" exemplifies how compelling UGC-style storytelling can be when it authentically captures raw emotions and the nuances of human relationships amidst danger.
