Chapter Sixteen Razor #2
He swallowed hard, as if the truth had lodged somewhere it couldn’t come back from.
He looked smaller than the first time I’d seen him piss his pants when I’d had to tell him Keeley was pregnant.
That made it all worse. I hated this life.
This place. How it dragged everyone down, even the ones who weren’t built for it.
Darren wasn’t blameless, but he hadn’t gone looking for this.
I was the one who brought it to his door.
“Fuck’s sake.” I scrubbed a hand over my buzzcut, stared at the wet concrete, then at him. “How many?”
He blinked. “What?”
“How many inside?”
“Five.”
Those odds weren’t in my favour. Panic tried to climb in my throat, but I pushed it down to crunch the numbers quick. Not the ones solved in lecture halls, but the arithmetic of streets and scars. A plan slid into place: draw them out, isolate one, take him quiet, keep the noise low, move fast.
Darren swallowed. “They want to take you down.”
“I know.” I took a breath, forcing the panic into order.
Right. Five men. Two vans. If they thought I’d walk straight through that shutter, they weren’t expecting me from the side. Fine. Let’s give them a surprise. I grabbed Darren’s collar again, dragging him deeper into the shadow. Then I fished out a bunch of cash from my jacket.
“Take that. Get Keeley and Maisie. Tell Mum to go to a friend. Find a hotel, stay there til I come for you. Don’t stop, don’t call no one.”
He shook his head. “They’ll come for me—”
“They want me,” I snapped. “If I give them me, they’ll leave you. Go.” When he didn’t move, I shoved him hard. “Now!”
He bolted, trainers splashing down the puddled alley. I watched long enough to see him slip through the gap in the fence before turning back to the yard. The shutter was still down. The vans hadn’t moved. Laughter drifted from inside. Cocky. Muffled. Men who thought they’d already won.
I pinged Tyler from the burner. A short code, nothing that could be read if a phone was grabbed.
He’d know: keep the line running no matter what, don’t show anyone we’re spooked, or a man down.
Then I checked the blade again, put my fingers where the handle met the leather pouch, and slid along the wall.
Rain and traffic did the work of sound for me.
The guard was a silhouette against the side door, hood up, fag smouldering.
Wait. Move. Wait. When he turned his head, I was on him.
Fast, quiet, an arm round his throat, the blade pressed into the soft flesh under his ribs.
He choked, went rubbery. The cigarette hit concrete and hissed out.
I eased him down into the puddle, felt the slick of rain and hot blood mix, and held my breath until his breathing slowed. Not dead, but destabilised.
That’s one.
A van door creaked open. Another voice called out, casual: “Oi, you done there?”
I flattened myself against the wall, heartbeat kicking at my ribs. The second bloke came out to check, not expecting anything other than his mate taking a piss. I lunged as he passed, slamming him into the side of the van. The impact rattled metal. He grunted. Loud. Too loud.
“Kai?” someone called from inside.
Shit.
The door clanged open. Three of them spilt out at once, and before I could move, something heavy cracked my shoulder.
Pain flared white. I swung the knife, caught one in the leg, but another grabbed my wrist, twisting until the blade clattered away.
A fist hit my jaw. Another sank into my gut.
I staggered, coughing blood, then rammed my head forward, catching one square in the nose.
Cartilage crunched. He went down, clutching his face.
“Get him!”
I spun, ready to get the fuck out of there, but a hand fixed into my jacket like a hook through canvas.
Hands were everywhere then. Weight everywhere.
Three on one. No technique. All violence.
And me? I was gunning for survival. I clawed, punched, kicked, bit.
Anything. Then the gun was taken from me as metal kissed my side before I even saw it, dragging a hot white line searing through muscle.
The world narrowed to pain and the names that mattered: Mum, Keeley, little Maisie, Lennon, Amara and the twins that weren’t even born… Levi.
Something animal in me took over then, and I slammed my elbow up into the geezer’s throat, feeling the wet hit of gagging, and shoved past. Three on one was insane for anyone. Especially with no gun. So I tore across the yard, blood warm and slick down my flank.
Voices rose behind me, rough and delighted.
A shot cracked out and hung over the canal.
Gun. They were using the fucking gun! I hit the fence, palms shredding on rusted metal, fingers slipping, metal biting skin; for a second, I thought everything would end there, then I scrambled over and kept moving.
“Razor!” Ghost’s taunting singsong of my name reverberated around the yard. “Run all you want. You’re done! You hear that? Done! This is mine, now. Tell Cormac you failed! I’ll take his brand.”
I dropped to the other side, rolled, hit the ground hard, and kept moving.
My vision tunnelled; everything shrank to breath and heartbeat and the pulse of pain under my ribs.
The car was two streets over, and I fell into it.
Keys. Pockets. Fucking hands wouldn’t work.
So I pressed them flat against the bonnet, steadying myself, then found the key, jammed it into the lock, and fell inside.
For a second, the world stopped. Just me, the rain, and the taste of iron in my mouth.
Then headlights caught movement in the rear-view, silhouettes at the fence line.
I slammed the car into gear and floored it.
Tyres squealed, the engine roared, and I tore down the slick road with blood soaking my shirt, the city blurring into streaks of orange light and fear. I was wounded. Down. Beaten.
Dying.
Without anywhere I could go they wouldn’t find me.