There they were. It wasn't a rare sighting to see them hovering over the blood stained stairs outside of Luther High and harassing other kids as they left school for the day. They had it all: leather varsity jackets, fresh new haircuts, brand new pants that fell three inches beneath their waist despite the fact that they were always wearing Gucci or Versace belts. Not to mention their popularity, their infinite amounts of cash, and the respect that even the teachers treated them with. Everyone in school envied them and respected them mostly because they were impenetrable. They were known as The Shooters. The Shooters had more power than any other group my father and I had ever witnessed. There was a kid in my elementary school who’s father was in the mafia and I witnessed the respect with which with people treated him. However, every member of The Shooters was treated with respect that far surpassed the amount of respect that my old friend’s father had. In fact, in my eyes, The Shooters were worse than the mafia. The Shooters upheld the largest drug distribution scheme throughout all of the high schools in the next three towns and were so powerful that the small police force in our little town never had the opportunity to take them down.
I didn’t have any of the popularity or the girls that they had. In fact, my social life was nonexistent and I hated almost everyone in my school. However, I did have one thing that I was proud of: my father was the head of police in our town. In my eyes, he was the man. I wanted to be just like my father, and, to be quite honest, you did not need much of the education that I was learning in high school to become a sheriff. Of course, I kept my grades up. But when I
was not doing work in school, I was observing The Shooters. Taking notes, observing technique of distribution, and making profiles for each of the eight members of the gang, - all of which I would later take to my father, - was my true way of receiving an education in my specialized field of serving justice.
On this day, however, when I was operating under my standard procedure of observing and taking notes of The Shooters as they harassed nerds on the steps of our high school, I slipped up and they noticed me.
“Yo!” The leader, Shots, said to me. He was about 6’1”, with a medium sized body that always appeared bulkier than it was because of the thick jackets that he wore. Although I knew it was just an act, his bulkiness was just another feature that helped make him extremely intimidating.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He said to me.
“Nothing si-,”
I paused as the fear that I was experiencing forced me to swallow.
“Nothing sir,” I said.
Shots forced through the resistance of his leather jacket and thrust his left hand into the air, beckoning me to approach them. I regretted each step I took as my stiff legs brought me closer towards them and eventually brought me to what I nervously joked with myself was the point of no return.
“What’s this?” Shots said as he ripped my notebook out of my hand.
He brought the book close to his face. It was this observation that led me to conclude that his left eye had very bad vision. Although possibly a minor detail that could never help lead to any
thing, my discovery of his bad vision within just seconds of being close to him sparked a revelation: the closer I could get to them, the more I would learn.
“Oh... Nothing...” I responded in an attempt to lead them on.
Hoopler, the member standing to Shot’s left, stepped forward and immediately picked me up by the cheap material around my shirt neck. Hoopler was even bigger than Shots. Standing at about 6’4” with the muscles of a bull and dark eyes that you could only imagine on the scariest character in your worst nightmare, Hoopler was extremely menacing. However, despite how threatening he was, when Hoopler raised me into the air, I was surprised. I hadn’t actually expected them to become this interested in me. I was just another high school student who obviously did not have the ability to hinder them.
“What the hell are all of these notes for? Are you with the feds?” Shots said. I could feel Hoopler’s grip tightening around my collar. “I want to know right now why the f*** you have been watching us!” Shot’s continued.
“Well, sir, I...”
I questioned what I was about to say. I wished my father could have guided me through this moment because I know once you commit, there is no way of getting out of it. I thought for one more second, but my thought was interrupted by an extremely painful punch to the gut.
“I- I want to join The Shooters,” I said.
They laughed and Hoopler released his grip, allowing for my feet to return to the ground as if he and the rest of the gang were no longer interested in me.

“Look, kid, I can tell you are serious by all this here research, but if ya want to join us, ya gotta be willing to do b
ad things, kid,” Shots said.
“I want the money, the respect, and the girls that you guys get,” I said.
Part of me was saying this because of the vast amount of information I knew I would obtain by being one of them. However, another part of me – one that I was trying not to admit to myself – was saying this because their lifestyles seemed amazing.
It took a while of me begging and assuring The Shooters that I was trustworthy before Shots finally agreed to give me a chance. He reached into his back pocket, took out an extremely small bag with green stuff inside it, and discreetly handed it to me.
“You have one chance. Understood? Sell this for 35 dollars by tomorrow, kid.”
At home later that night was the first time in all of my three years of high school that I did not approach my father to tell him about my discoveries from that day’s observations. Noticing this abnormity, my father approached me.
“What’s wrong, son? Any interesting notes from today’s observations?” He asked.
“Yes, dad, everything’s fine. I just had too much work today and didn’t get the chance to observe them.” I said.
By the look on my father’s face, I could tell he was upset. Since my mother passed away two years prior, my observations of The Shooters had been one thing that we could always rely upon to spark a conversation between us and keep us close. In fact, my father and I used to be much closer before the passing of my mother. Sometimes he would pick me up from school and take me down to the station to do hands on work with him. But when my mother died, he became extremely protective over me because I was the only thing that he had left and as a result, we have not been able to share many fun experiences since.
A
s much as I craved to tell my father about all of the exciting news that night, I knew I couldn't. I was the only one who was that close to The Shooters and I was the only one who saw how much information I learned about them from just five minutes of being close to them. I could only imagine the endless information I would learn if I were around them all the time. I knew if I had told him, my father would belittle my accomplishments and disapprove my day’s work because of his concern for my safety. Along with telling me that I must not join the gang, I feared most that my father would say the words that have echoed in my head since he said them two years prior: “Look Son, I don't mind you making observations, but when it comes to the up close work, let me do my job.” So, for the rest of the night when I encountered my father, I did my best to keep a poker face, despite having news that I so badly wanted to tell him.
I wasn't able to sleep much throughout the night but the next morning, when my alarm clock went off, I sprung out of bed with more energy than ever before. I took advantage of the five minutes I always had before my dad woke up by burying the little bag that Shots gave me in the bottom of my garbage can and by taking $35 dollars out of the personal savings that I always kept hidden under my bed.
At school I could not focus in any of my classes and when the bell finally rang at the end the day, I ran outside and waited on the steps in the exact spot that I spoke to them the day before. It was not long before they approached me. I pulled the 35 dollars out of my pocket before they even said anything and to my satisfaction, I could tell that they were surprised.

“Wow. Very impressive, kid.” Shots said 
“What is next, Sir?”
My question was met by
a somewhat approving smirk.
For the next two weeks, I did whatever they told me to. Between purchasing knives for them, making drug deliveries, and even contributing to the bullying of fellow high school students, I did it all. My grades in school fell immensely that week, but to be quite honest, it was worth it. I was getting more information than I ever thought was possible and it was all happening so quickly. Also, the part that I hated to admit to myself was that as the week progressed, I became more and more in love with what I was doing. Not only did I love the thrill and adrenaline that I received from completing such risky tasks, but I loved what these tasks brought me. Now having the respect of The Shooters and even my own nickname as “Kid Wonder,” I was a true member of the gang and I received every benefit that they did; I was getting money, I was getting girls, and I was receiving respect from everyone in school. I felt invincible. One kid who used to bully me no longer made eye contact with me in the halls because he knew that if he even came near me, he would be the next person who’s blood would be added to the Luther High steps. Not because I would beat him up, I was still the small, weak child that he was beating up just a week before. But now, I had a gang and they had my back.
By the time of my second week anniversary as part of the gang, everything already felt routine. I was doing what we called a drop-off-and-collect, in which we would all drive somewhere and when they told me to, I would get out of the car with a bag full of drugs and give the bag to someone in exchange for money. This time, however, was very different.
As if my handing over the drugs had turned a switch, immediately as the drugs touched the hands of the buyer, bright lights flashed upon us and a police siren went off.
“Put your
hands where I can see them,” A familiar voice said.
As the police officer got out of his car and began approaching us with one hand placed on his gun and the other holding a flashlight, it wasn't long before my suspicion was proven correct and a dark outline of what I recognized to be my father’s figure was moving towards us.
“William? Is that you, William?” My father asked.
“I can explain,” I said.
“There is no time for explaining now,” My father replied with a look of disappointment on his face.
My dad placed a pair of handcuffs around the kid that was purchasing the drugs. “You wait here,” he said to me as he told the kid what his rights were and then took him back to the car. However, I did not listen to my father’s commands. As my father seated the kid in the back of his police car, I approached them. “Can I have a word with you, Dad?” I said. He looked at me with slight distrust on his face. “Please dad, trust me about this one,” I continued. We walked around to the back of the car.
“Dad, I know what I was doing looks bad, but trust me. I am undercover with The Shooters right now,” I said.

“Boy have you lost your damn mind? You are selling illegal drugs right now!” He said

“No. Trust me. Do you see that van over there? The entire gang is in that van and they are
waiting for me to return. No one is on lookout right now. Dad, now is our chance!” I said

He stared at me with disbelief. Mom died when an old member of the gang killed her for his initiation as a leader and now was finally our chance to get revenge upon The Shooters. My dad called backup - telling the police stations from the next three towns that we finally had a chance to get The Shooters - and within just minutes, nearly every police member from the town station was there, with more from other towns coming. Together we all closed in on the van, giving The Shooters no option but to surrender. I looked over at my father whose face now lit up with happiness.
When I saw that look on my father’s face, I decided that I would never tell him that I actually enjoyed working for The Shooters.
“Hey dad?” I said.
“Yes, son?” He replied.
“Justice has been served.”