“And you’re able to do this without Freeze knowing?” Albert had asked Mylo.

“They ain’t organized like they used to be. Black and Bobby is out. They don’t even fuck with the shit no more. I couldn’t tell you the last time I even saw Bobby. I’m tellin’ you, Freeze ain’t the nigga y’all think he is,” Mylo boasted.

Mylo knew that the time would come when he would have to get out, so before that happened, he wanted to have enough money to retire on. But there was another side of Mylo; one that Birdie and Albert, and especially Freeze, didn’t know about. Mylo was, in reality, a rogue DEA agent. His real name was Clint Harris and he’d been working deep cover assignments for the last five years. His job was to work his way into the target organization, gather information, and then bring the whole thing down. That had been his life, until his handler didn’t show up for their weekly conversation. At that point, he was on his own. That is… until fellow DEA agent Kenneth DeFrancisco brought him in. “You work for me now,” DeFrancisco said when he first approached Mylo.

“What do I have to do?” Mylo asked.

“Exactly what you do. I put you in position, you make contact and work your way in, then report to me.”

“No problem,” Mylo responded, knowing that it couldn’t be that simple.

“There’s only one minor difference. You’re not there looking for evidence of a drug conspiracy; you’re there to create one.”

It was DeFrancisco that put Mylo in touch with Albert; but then DeFrancisco went to jail and left Mylo out here again making crazy money with no handler.

Birdie and Albert’s deaths were responsible for something other than Mylo getting a primo spot, running the game. Their demise also gave birth to The Commission.

After Birdie and Albert’s funeral, Mylo and several of the dealers that had bought from them got together to pour out a little liquor for their homies. It didn’t take long before Black was the topic of conversation.