Chapter Eight Razor #3
I dialled the burner and called Kyan. We met under the railway arch.
He was early. Good. Bloke never learnt how to be casual when he was waiting.
New on the payroll. Had initiative. Knew what he was getting in for.
And he dropped the carrier bag, no drama.
I peered inside at the folded notes. Then counted fast while keeping my eyes on his face. He tried to look bored. He wasn’t.
“You got caught in the Hamlets,” I said. Statement, not question. Tyler’d already told me Kyan had gone across the border. “Why you hanging there?”
“Some old geezer offered double, yeah?” He swallowed. “Had to take it.”
See, that’s the thing most don’t get. They think this game’s freedom.
Fast cash, no boss breathing down their neck.
But it’s the same as any job. There’s a chain.
A system. And I’m the one holding their leash so Cormac don’t yank mine.
And we start dealing on someone else’s block — Ghost’s block — that’s not just greed, that’s war.
One wrong move and it’ll bring heat, bullets, or both.
I stepped in close so he could see I meant it. “You had orders. You take double without asking, that’s you making choices that ain’t yours to make.”
He looked small for a second. “I know. Sorry.”
“Rules.”
“Yeah. Sorry, Razor. I’ll call you next time.”
“Good. Can I trust you?”
“Yeah. Course.”
I handed him the matchbook. The one with the sample Luca dropped last night tucked inside. Ghost’s gear. Whatever love-letter they were handing out at The Yard. “This goes to Tyler. By two. No stops. You get caught, you get fags.”
It’s boring, that bit of procedure, but it’s important.
You don’t move new stuff in blind. You test the cut, check the weight, see if it’s poison or bait.
You send it to someone you trust. A kid with a nose, a mate who’s been on kits long enough to tell the difference.
If it’s dodgy, you bin it. If it’s clean, you move smart.
He nodded, and took the matchbook, shoving it deep in his pocket. “I’ll be careful.”
“Don’t be careful because you’re scared of me.” I gave him fifty quid from my take. “Be careful because you don’t want to bury kids ‘cos you were greedy. And get your mum some flowers or summink, yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Razor.” He left quick with the look of a kid who’d just been handed responsibility heavier than his shoulders. That’s the job. Keep the line fed and the losses small. Keep loyalty worth what you pay for it.
After that came the supplier check. Short, neutral meet at the caff where Joe locked the doors for us to have handshake deals, quiet talk, a quick sniff for heat.
I nodded up at Joe behind the counter reading The Sunday Sport, then went over to Kade and Rowan tucked in the back booth by the window facing the carwash.
Kade was mid-thirties, thick-necked, wore danger like a smell.
Rowan was younger, lean, all nerves and calculation.
They moved weight through Tottenham. Not top dogs, but close enough to hear them bark.
“Morning, Razor,” Kade said as I slid into the seat. “Heard you had a busy one.”
“When ain’t it?” I nodded at the duffel by his feet. “That mine?”
He nudged it forward with his boot. “Two keys. Fresh batch. Cormac’s orders.”
I pulled one bag up, turned it in my hand, sniffed it. Good cut, no sour tang. “Clean.”
“Wouldn’t hand you dirt,” Kade said. “Cormac don’t like reworks. You know that.”
I did. Cormac ran things the way I did. Clean.
Quiet. Structured. You did your job, you got paid, and you didn’t make noise.
He didn’t want soldiers. He wanted systems. So we talked price, usual game.
I shaved a few notes off because one of my lads had a newborn and needed a top-up.
Kade didn’t blink. Men like him respected loyalty. It kept the line stable.
When we were done, Rowan finally spoke. “You heard about Ghost?”
I looked up. “What about him?”
“Making noise again. Couple of lads up near Hackney Wick say his lot been creeping further west. Offering better cuts. Trying to poach.”
I zipped the bag shut. “They try my patch, they’ll find out how far west they get.”
Kade grinned, teeth yellow and honest. “Just saying. Keep your eyes up. Word is Ghost’s got new backing. Some big player out of Manchester.”
“Everyone’s got backing.” I pushed back from the table. “Don’t mean they got discipline.”
We left it there. No threats. No talk of guns. Just men who understood how close business and blood sat on the same ledger. And no indication that I already knew what Ghost was moving. That was mine to sort
Outside, the day had turned thin and cold. I lit a cigarette, made my way down the street, checked messages, confirmed the drop-offs. Moved from one spot to the next like a heartbeat keeping time. That’s what the job was. Not glamour. Not chaos.
Logistics. Control.
I’m a cog. Reliable. Replaceable.
Cormac was above me, a genuine Irish lunatic.
He controlled five lines across East and North London, perhaps more.
Who he answered to was irrelevant. Maybe he answered to God, maybe no one.
The point was, I didn't see him unless he summoned me.
When his number rang, the only reason was trouble.
I cherished the silences. Those were the good days; proof that my patch was clean, the flow was steady, and all was happening.
If I ever heard his voice, I had to already know the answer to whatever demand he was about to make, or I was finished.
Dead.
My family too.
I swung by the van, checked the stash. Dry, untouched. Then called Layton about the buggy for Keeley. He’d sort one cheap from a mate’s market stall. We agreed the price and drop off, so I phoned her on the way back towards Tariq’s.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, the telly loud in the background. “You got me that buggy?”
“Layton’s dropping it off later. Don’t give him nothing but a thank you, yeah?”
“Thanks, Richie!”
By the time I got back to QuickFix, the sky had gone the colour of gunmetal, and the cranes were slicing through it. Tariq looked up as I walked in, grin spreading.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“Whoever owns this is dumb as fuck.” He handed the phone to me. “Or doesn’t give a fuck about it.”
I took it and thumbed it open. I was in. Messages, apps the lot. “How’d you get in?”
“Stupid prick had the passcode as sixty-nine sixty-nine sixty-nine.”