Page 76 of Crave

No second times.

Certainly, no third.

The roads shimmered gold and grey, puddles reflecting the low clouds and the blue flick of a passing police car. I stood there for a moment under the corrugated awning, listening to the city breathe. Taxis, sirens, the clatter of cans rolling across the pavement. The music that raised me was about to kill me.

I lit a fag, drew hard, and tasted copper where I’d bitten my tongue.

The first thing was to find out what Tyler had dug up while I’d been… otherwise occupied last night. I could tell myself it’d been for the good of the firm, some clever play to keep everyone sweet. But the truth was, it hadn’t been about the firm at all.

That had been my selfishness popping out for a while.

My stupidity.

Tyler picked up on the third ring.

“Tell me you got something worth hearing.”

“Yeah. Been watching Ghost’s lot down by the canal like you said. They shifted gear late. Two vans, no plates, rolled out from the lock-up near Roman Road. Had a few boys loadin’ boxes, but they weren’t the usual runners. Looked like heavy hitters. Out-of-towners.”

My gut tightened. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, they left someone behind at the warehouse. Big lad, shaven head. Didn’t do much, just stood there smokin’ and watchin’ the street. Felt off, though. Like they were expectin’ company.”

I stubbed out the cigarette. “They should be.”

“Want me down there?”

“Nah. Stay off-grid. If it’s bait, I ain’t draggin’ you into it.”

“Razor—”

“You know the drill if I don’t come back, yeah?” I cut him off before he could start talking brave.

“Yeah, but, fuck, Razor…I can handle this with you.”

“Tell me the drill.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Get your mum and Keeley out. Take the line. Keep it running until someone notices.”

“Good lad.” I flicked the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Now stay put.”

I killed the call and tossed the phone back in my pocket. Then I opened the boot, lifted the floor panel by the corner I’d cut days ago and hooked my fingers into the tyre well. The hoodie-wrapped box was still wedged beside the spare, buried under carpet and German engineering. Hidden deep where only thieves or coppers with hours to waste would ever look. And no one wastes time on my car.

I pulled it free. The box felt heavier than it should. Or maybe I was just sick of this part. The part where I pretended I wasn’t in too deep. I opened it. The piece inside stared back at me. A fucking lie in metal form. No weight. No soul. No respect. Guns don’t make men. Guns erase them. But Ghost didn’t care about men. He cared about territory. And fear. So I loaded the mag and slid the weapon into the back of my jeans, the metal biting into my spine, a cold reminder of how far down the ladder this could drag me. I slammed the boot shut before my second thoughts caught up.

Then I got in the driver’s seat, and when I started the engine, I caught sight of Lennon across the road. Working at a building site. Hard hat on, drilling away as if trying to build a life that’d outlast all this mess.

Fuck.

I hung my head. Tried to keep my conscience in check. To do that, I told myself another lie. What I was doing now was saving this shithole. Keeping Hackney under my authority would keep my family and his babies safe.

So I moved off and drove towards the canal.

I used the backstreets, avoiding every pothole and CCTV on instinct. The sat-nav blinked uselessly. I knew these roads by pulse: the graffiti arches where deals went stale, the underpass where pigeons lived off dropped bags, the sugar-stinking bakery that’d been boarded since I was fifteen. Ideally, I’d wait until night. The city compresses under dark. Alleys fold into one another, the big roads fall away, and what’s left is raw and cheap and honest. That’s where deals get done.

But I also needed to see what was going in and out. So when I got to the warehouse sitting squat against the water, brick eaten by graffiti, shutter pitted and half-closed, I found a gap in the line of parked vans and slid the car in. Close enough to see movement but hidden by a girder and a heap of pallets. I cut the engine and sat, radio off. Everything that could make me seen or heard was dead. I wanted to watch without being caught.

From here, the place looked smaller. A mouth in a wall, the shutter’s teeth closed enough to hide what was inside. I kept the window cracked a finger so I could smell the diesel, wet rope, and faint copper of metal. Then hood up, I reached into the driver’s door pocket and took the blade. My real friend. Edge honed mean. Handle worn to the print of my palm. A weapon that told the truth. And I slid it into the back of my waistband, angled reverse grip, right side. Next to the gun. Warm next to cold. Me next to the lie. My pulse eased. My mind sharpened. My world narrowed to the shutter and what waited behind it.