Prologue
The smell of the flat was awful. Finn shut the door with a kick, his coat slipping off his shoulders and onto the stand.
It didn't feel like home here. There were four discoloured walls and a bed that squeaked as if it held the weight of Finn's wrong choices.
He didn't turn on the light. There was no point.
There was barely enough space for a kitchen and living area in the one-bedroom apartment. Everything he owned would fit in a trash bag, and maybe that's where they belonged. He worked twelve-hour shifts in a factory that consumed people and ejected them as living liabilities.
It was 9:03 p.m. on the clock. Time was like a razor, constantly slicing him where it hurt. He needed to get back up by 2:30. One more shift. Another long day of sweating profusely for a salary that barely covered his expenses.
He took off his filthy clothes and went into the shower. The first few seconds of warm water almost made him feel as though he could relax, until the water suddenly stopped flowing.
Water trickled from his hair like raindrops as he stood there. Suppressing his anger, he clenched his jaw.
"Creative bastard," he muttered. "Guess the landlord's done playing nice."
It had been four months. Four months of half-baked lies and false promises. Perhaps this was something he deserved. Perhaps all people like him deserved this.
After drying off with a scratchy towel and throwing it away, he dug through his filthy laundry pile and put on whatever passed off as clean clothes.
The refrigerator yawned. All he could smell was a sour smell that made his stomach turn, and a dead yoghurt carton.
'Great, guess I'm going hungry tonight'
He grunted and raised the bed. The frame protested with a groan. There was a black duffel bag underneath, buried like a corpse under floorboards. The zip jerked open.
Inside were tightly wrapped packs of white drugs. The kind of drugs that bought guns, graves, and short-lived loyalty.
He stared at them for a long moment. This wasn't a choice. It never had been. His debts were stacked higher than the ceiling, and tonight's delivery was non-negotiable. If he failed, well dead men didn't need showers or sleep.
The street lay lifeless outdoors, interrupted sometimes by the single pass of a car. Finn tugged his hoodie in about him, shoving hands deep in pockets, and shivering at the cold bites at uncovered flesh. His breath misted in the air.
As he walked, he dialled the number of the contact, his thumb pressing against the screen. He heard it dial. No answer. A minute passed. A text flashed up with a single address:
Meet at 11th and Maple. Come alone.
His stomach dropped. That message stank. Too clean. Too final.
He'd been set up before.
Wouldn't be the last time.
He reached a path that led him down an alley way and then he made a couple of turns and reached the location.
The gang was already there. Five of them. Black coats, shadowed eyes. One held a cigarette; another clutched a duffel like it was filled with gold. It might as well have been.
"You made it, deadbeat," one called, voice dripping with something between humor and hate.
"Same shit, different night," Finn muttered. He stepped into the circle, duffel in hand.
"You got the goods?" another asked, inhaling hard from his cigarette. "Better not be baking soda again."
"I got what you paid for." Finn dropped the bag.
One of the men zipped open their duffel bag and revealed huge wads of cash, his heart pounding. He had never seen that amount of money in his life.
Finn extended his hand out for the cash, but one of the men stopped him and zipped open the bag containing the drugs. He pulled out a hunting knife and tore it open and scooped some with the knife and inhaled it for a long time.
Sadly, for Finn the man's face morphed into surprise then fury. "The drug's fucking expired!" he screamed, his voice full of rage.
Finn's heart slammed against his chest. He'd been set up. The drugs were trash, and he was now stuck in the worst situation possible.
Before he could react, the gang members were pulling out weapons, eyes narrowing in on him. A gun was aimed at his head.
Finn could feel the cold metal of his own pistol tucked away in his pants. He backed away slowly, keeping his eyes on the gang, trying not to make any sudden moves.
"Thought you were trustworthy, motherfucker!" one of them yelled, aiming a pistol at Finn's head.
He didn't even think .His fingers found the handle of the gun in his waistband. He drew it out and fired in one quick motion. The first man fell, tremors of blood coursing through him. The deafening roar of gunfire filled the alley prompting Finn to leap for shelter behind a dumpster, his breath was uneven and heart was pounding.
A bullet that broke bone and muscle sent pain through his shoulder. He rolled and clenched his jaw, barely escaping another bullet.
His body acted instinctively, almost on impulse rather than survival. He tackled the man nearest to him, feeling the hot burn of another bullet graze his back. There was no time to dwell on the excruciating pain.
Gripping the man's hunting knife with a snarl and slashing it across the side of his neck, he heaved. Blood sprayed across his face, warm and slick. The man gurgled, and then his hand's hold slipped, as he fell to the ground.
Finn didn't wait to see if the man was dead. He pulled the knife from the corpse's neck and tossed it aside then quickly let off a couple rounds in a haphazard fashion. He didn't know if they hit anyone. He didn't care. His vision was swimming.
Another scream split the air. Finn was running on empty at this point—his body a canvas of injuries, as if death itself was a crazed artist. Below him, his blood mixed with the pavement and dirt. Grasping his side where a knife had sliced through, he leaned against a corner. Even though his ribs hurt badly, he was unable to stop.
Two men were left, running like rats, and he wasn't about to chase them.
The sirens were approaching quickly, but Finn still had one task to finish. He dragged himself toward the cash. He had to get away with it. All this bloodshed had to mean something.
His legs gave out under him. His body felt like it was crumbling. Every breath felt painful, every movement was slower. His vision blurred, yet he stretched out for the cash one final time.
Suddenly, a gunshot echoed through the quiet alleyway. And it was over.