One hour ago, in the most terrifying moment of his life, Lil Wayne gathered the last pieces of strength he had left to call the only person he trusted—his longtime friend Mack Maine—to tell him that in just a few moments, he would be leaving the United States. Mack, who had known Wayne through every rise and fall of his turbulent career, instantly sensed that something was wrong. Wayne’s voice was shaking, thin, almost unrecognizable, as if every word he spoke was being dragged out of him against his will.
“Bro… I can’t stay here anymore,” Wayne whispered, the sound of heavy breathing echoing through the phone. “They found me. I don’t have time.”
Mack froze. For years, he had heard Wayne talk about pressure, threats, lawsuits, stalkers, and the constant weight of fame—but he had never heard fear like this. He asked where Wayne was, what happened, who was after him, but the rapper avoided every question, speaking in fragments as if he was watching something unfold in real time on the other side of the line.
Sirens wailed faintly in the background. Doors slammed. Someone shouted Wayne’s name, but not in a friendly tone. The call crackled as if the phone itself was panicking with him.
“Listen to me,” Wayne said, his voice trembling. “If I don’t make it to the plane… if something happens… you gotta tell my kids I love them. Tell them I tried.”
“Wayne, stop talking like that,” Mack snapped, pacing the room. But his hands were shaking too. “Where are you? I’m coming to get you right now.”
There was a long pause—too long. Mack thought the call had dropped until he finally heard Wayne exhale a shaky breath.
“I’m at the hangar,” he said quietly. “They said the jet is waiting, but… I don’t know if I can trust anyone anymore. Not after last night.”
Mack felt his heart drop into his stomach. Last night. The incident Wayne refused to talk about. The one that left him with a bruised face, a cut above his eyebrow, and a paranoia so sharp it made him look over his shoulder every ten seconds. He had brushed it off as an accident, but Mack now realized it was far from that.
Another noise burst through the phone—footsteps. Fast ones.
Wayne’s voice hardened, full of panic. “Bro, they’re here.”
“Wayne, RUN!” Mack shouted, but the line was already breaking. He could hear Wayne breathing, sprinting, the echo of his shoes hitting concrete. Someone yelled behind him. Something metallic clattered to the ground.
Then, suddenly, Wayne whispered one final sentence, soft enough that Mack wasn’t sure he heard it correctly:
“If I don’t make it out… thank you for being the only real one.”
The call ended. The screen went black.
Mack stood frozen, phone still pressed to his ear, unable to move. He tried calling back, again and again, but every attempt went straight to voicemail. His palms were sweating. His chest felt tight. He didn’t know whether Wayne was already in the air, trapped somewhere, or surrounded by the people who had been chasing him.
All he knew was that something terrible was happening—and that Lil Wayne was running out of time.
