"That's it, officer."
The door shut. The lock clicked. Footsteps faded down the hall.
I stood there for a second.
Then—
"FUCK."
The lamp left my hand and exploded against the wall. I grabbed the chair and hurled it into the desk. Drawers burst open. Papers everywhere. My phone followed — one clean throw, screen shattering as it hit the mirror and slid down dead.
I paced, hands clenched, jaw tight.
They'd been polite. That was the worst part. Polite meant curious. Curious meant files. Files meant names.
I went to the balcony and looked down.
The duffel bags hung where I'd left them, tied tight to the two golden spears jutting up from below. Rain slicked the fabric. Money swaying gently in the air like it didn't know what it was worth.
I pulled the door shut and moved back inside.
Laptop open. Forums. Contacts. Burner accounts. Fingers moving fast now, steadier than my head felt. Fake passports. European. Clean entry. Fast turnaround.
Maxwell leaned in like he'd been there the whole time.
"So that's it," he said. "You're running."
"I'm thinking."
"All it took was one visit."
"They weren't visiting," I said. "They were measuring."
"This was always the plan," he said. "Cash. Exit. You're right at the finish."
I slammed the laptop shut. "I don't give a shit about the money."
That one landed.
He smiled without smiling. "You're lying to yourself."
I dragged a hand down my face.
"Brooklyn's still here," Maxwell said. "Breathing. Safe. No one's knocking on her door."
I leaned back against the wall, let my head hit it once.
Slow.
"Relax," he said. "You're not done yet."
I stared at the ceiling.
Not yet.
The phone buzzed in my hand.
Grendel: you alright?
I stared at the screen longer than I should've, then hit call.
"What the fuck happened," I said as soon as he picked up.
"Come downstairs," he replied. "I'm waiting."
The call ended before I could say anything else.
I grabbed the two duffel bags from the room, shoulders dipping under the weight, and headed for the lift. The money felt different now. Not exciting. Not heavy. Just present. Like it was watching me.
Grendel was already in the driver's seat when I stepped out. Engine running. Calm. Too calm.
I threw the bags into the back and got in. The doors shut and we pulled away from the hotel.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Remote warehouse," he said. "For now."
"Where's Gerrad?"
Grendel kept his eyes on the road. "Already there. He's staying put for a bit."
I nodded, then stared out the window as London slid by. Empty pavements. Late buses. People pretending the night didn't carry teeth.
"School's tomorrow," I said suddenly.
Grendel glanced at me, confused. "You serious?"
"I don't know," I said. "Just… thinking."
Kingsmere flashed in my head. Clean halls. Polished shoes. Aristocrats playing at importance. Annoying. Smug. But harmless. None of them followed you home. None of them watched from alleyways.
"Those people weren't that bad," I muttered. "At least you knew what game you were playing."
Grendel didn't respond.
I shifted in my seat. "You got any info on the guys who did the shooting?"
He exhaled slowly. "Yeah. And you're not gonna like it."
"Try me."
"Before you," he said, "there was Victor."
My jaw tightened.
"Same guy you killed," Grendel continued. "The one who followed you."
Silence filled the car.
"He wasn't just some idiot," Grendel said. "Victor was respected. Old connections. People listened to him."
I stared ahead. "Respected for what. Stalking?"
"For surviving," Grendel said. "For being ruthless when it mattered."
"Street name's Kane."
The name came back to me then. Kane.
I'd heard it months ago. News reports. Street whispers. Kane had been stabbed, shot, left for dead more than once. He always came back. Didn't showboat. Didn't flex online. Just moved quiet and effective.
In fact I was so interested in the man that I followed him just to see this 'undead zombie'. I remember seeing him for the first time. Standing across the street. Not hiding. Just watching. How the fuck did I not recognise him.
"So," I said, "they're mad."
"Very," Grendel replied. "Especially some og mf who used to run with him."
I clenched my fist and slammed it against the door.
"Fuck."
Grendel nodded once. "Yeah."
The warehouse appeared ahead, isolated and dark, floodlights humming softly.
I leaned back, breathing slow.
Victor 'Kane' wasn't just dead.
He was unfinished. A less present ghost.
Grendel killed the engine and the silence rushed in, thick and heavy. I stepped out and the smell hit first—chemical, sharp, layered with oil and damp concrete. Inside, the place was lit by hanging fluorescents that buzzed like insects. Crates stacked to the ceiling. Wooden boxes stencilled with numbers. Plastic-wrapped bricks piled on tables. Cocaine. Heroin. Guns sealed in foam-lined cases. Enough inventory to start a small war or end a few lives quietly, depending on who touched what.
I walked deeper in, boots echoing. The duffel bags sat where Grendel had dropped them, money still intact. For a second I just stood there, surrounded by it all, trying to slow my breathing.
Then I heard it.
"You've really fucked up."
I froze.
Don Esteban's voice didn't come from anywhere specific. It just filled the space, calm and disappointed, like he was standing right behind me even though I knew he wasn't. Phone on speaker somewhere. Camera feed maybe. Always watching.
I turned slowly, scanning the shadows. "You've got a funny way of saying hello."
"People are looking for you," he said. "Serious people. Strong. Connected. The kind that don't stop because you hide in a warehouse."
I clenched my jaw. "Then help me."
A pause. Long enough to feel intentional.
"That isn't my problem," Esteban replied. "You were useful. You may still be. But don't confuse that with being irreplaceable."
The word landed clean. Replaceable. Like a bullet set gently on the table.
I swallowed. "Then give me names."
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"Malik Armani."
The name hit and something ugly stirred in my chest. Images flashed without permission—hands around a throat, bone giving way, a body folding. I pictured it too easily. The thought settled like it belonged there.
Esteban continued, unbothered. "He moves volume. Cocaine. Weapons. Heroin. You kill him, one of two things happens. Either he gets replaced within a week, or you die before the week's over."
"Where does he operate?" I asked.
"South London," Esteban said. "Brixton. Croydon. Peckham. He doesn't stay still. Smart man. Old contacts. New soldiers."
I paced, eyes tracking the stacks around me. All this product. All this risk. "So why here?"
"Because it's getting harder to watch the sea," Esteban said. "Ports are noisy. Eyes everywhere. This warehouse is quieter. For now. Most operations will route through here until that changes."
I stopped walking. "And me?"
A faint smile crept into his voice. "If you survive this endeavour, I'd like to see where you go from here."
"And if I don't?"
"Then this is goodbye."
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone still in my hand, the warehouse humming around me. Cocaine. Guns. Money. Enemies with names now. I exhaled slowly and looked at the crates again—not as inventory, not as power—but as weight. Pressure.
I left the warehouse like my skin was on fire.
Didn't say anything to Grendel at first. Just got in the van and told him to drive. My leg wouldn't stop bouncing. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Esteban's voice was still in my head, calm as ever, telling me I was optional. Replaceable. Like all of this—every crate, every gun, every body—was just a temporary arrangement that didn't include me in the long run.
I rubbed my face hard with both hands.
I couldn't kill Malik Armani.
Not like that. Not fast. Not clean.
Even if I found him tonight and put a bullet in his head, the volume wouldn't disappear with him. Someone would step into the space before the blood dried. Esteban said a week, but I knew the truth—it wouldn't even take that long.
"So where's he weakest?" I muttered.
Grendel glanced at me through the mirror. Didn't answer straight away.
I looked up. "Where is he when he's not Malik Armani."
A pause. Then, "He coaches youth football. Saturdays. South side pitches. Same place every week."
I laughed once. Short. Sharp. "Of course he does."
"Want me to bring the others?" Grendel asked.
"No," I said. "Drive me there."
The van pulled up near the pitch just as the sun was starting to dip. Kids running drills. Parents on the sidelines with folding chairs and coffee cups. Shouting encouragement like this was the most important thing in the world. Whistles. Laughter. Normal life.
I told Grendel to stay in the car.
He didn't argue.
I stepped out and walked toward the pitch, hands visible, heartbeat steadying with every step. Malik Armani stood near the touchline, tracksuit zipped halfway, cigarette in hand like he wasn't supposed to be there but didn't care. Calm. Watching the kids move.
I stopped a few feet from him.
"How you doing, Malik Armani?" I said.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even turn at first. Just took a drag, exhaled slow.
Then he looked at me. Really looked.
"I'm doing well," he said. "Dan Lieberman."
My stomach dropped.
I kept my face still, but inside something cracked. "You've been busy."
He smiled slightly, like we were sharing a private joke. "You don't get where I am by being lazy."
I nodded toward the pitch. "A lot of innocent people got hurt after the shit you pulled."
He exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes back on the kids. "My condolences," he said calmly. "My respect goes to the victims."
I laughed under my breath. "That's it?"
He shrugged. "Violence isn't personal. It's logistical."
I felt my fingers curl into my palm. "You shot up a hotel. Civilians. Random people."
He turned fully now. Looked me in the eye. "Next time," he said, voice even, "I'll get better shooters. Better guns. And next time, I won't miss."
There it was. No shouting. No chest beating. Just certainty.
"You know. I said. We can come at you at anytime."
He took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, crushed it under his shoe. Then he stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that I could smell smoke and mint and something metallic underneath.
He leaned in slightly and said, exactly, calmly:
"Does it look like I'm hiding lil nigga."
The word hit harder than any punch.
For half a second, my body moved before my brain could catch it. Heat rushing up my spine. Every instinct screaming to do something irreversible. My hand twitched.
Then I looked past him.
Kids laughing. One of them tripping over the ball and getting back up. A parent clapping. A whistle blowing.
And I understood.
This wasn't a threat.
This was a message.
He knew my name. Knew where I'd come from. Knew I couldn't touch him here—not without becoming something even Esteban wouldn't bother defending.
Malik stepped back, already done with me. "You want war," he said casually, "come find me when you're ready to lose."
He turned back to the pitch.
I stood there for a moment longer than I should have, then walked away without looking back. My hands were shaking now. Not fear. Not exactly.
Something worse.
When I got back in the van, Grendel looked at me. "You good?"
I stared straight ahead. "Drive."
As the pitch disappeared behind us, one thing was clear.
Malik Armani wasn't running.
And neither was I.