Page 120 of Corrupt

“You do today. It’s yours, remember? What I gave you. Quick drop, done.”

Quick. Done.

Like it ever was.

I closed my eyes. Long enough to feel the trap settle. To understand that this wasn’t the moment to fight. This was the moment to survive.

I pushed off the railing. “Send me the details.”

The line went dead.

So I went back into the bedroom. Tristan stirred as I pulled on my clothes, and he blinked up at me, hair a mess, eyes still soft with sleep. “You leaving?”

“Yeah.” I bent and kissed his forehead. Kept it light. Normal. “Got called out. Nothing major. Might see you later, yeah?”

He propped himself up on his elbow. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

“It’ll be done quick. Then…who knows, eh? Keep your window open.”

“Be careful.”

“Always am.”

Another lie. Slid on easily.

I didn’t look back when I shut the door.

I got in the car and pulled away from the kerb without looking back.

West London fell away too easily. Wide streets still damp from the night, townhouses waking up polite and quiet, cafés setting out chairs as if nothing bad had ever happened on that pavement. It smelt of bread and early coffee and money that didn’t need guarding. I drove through it on autopilot, past places that didn’t clock me, that asked nothing of me.

Then, the road narrowed.

The buildings changed. Brick crept back in. Steel. Graffiti bleeding through fresh paint. The city’s tone altered as if someone had turned the bass back up, and I felt it in my chest. That familiar tightening. As if stepping into a jacket I’d worn too long but never quite shrugged off.

By the time I hit the lock-up, the sky had gone flat and colourless.

I parked, let myself in, and pulled the bag from where it had been waiting. Black. Anonymous. The sort of thing that disappeared into a room unless you were looking for it. Light enough to lift easily, heavy enough to mean something. I tested the weight out of habit, adjusted the strap, felt it settle against my palm.

This was the line.

My line.

I shoved it into the boot and shut it hard, then stood there with my hands braced on the metal, breathing through my nose. Told myself I’d thought this through. That this was how I did it clean. How I moved without tipping my hand. That I was heading towards my exit.

I got back in the car and headed east again, further this time. Past the places trying too hard to look new. Past the ones that hadn’t bothered. Warehouses hunched against the river, with glass towers rising behind. Docklands came into view, all sharp edges and cold water and space swallowing sound. When I reached the unit, it was open. Two cars I didn’t recognise sat inside, engines off, windows dark, the river slapping quietly against the concrete outside.

I killed the engine and stayed where I was.

Paranoia had me checking the mirrors. The doors. The angles. Counting exits the way I always did, the way I’d been trained to. Everything looked clean. Still, a feeling pressed low in my gut. Not panic. Nor fear, as such. It was colder than that. Resignation. Like the moment before stepping into a punch you know is coming.

I got out. Opened the boot. Lifted the bag.

For a moment, my head went where I wanted it. To sun instead of sodium lights. White stone under bare feet. Heat soaking into bone. A place where no one knew my name or what it was worth. Somewhere I didn’t have to keep score or keep watch. Somewhere the air didn’t smell of oil and fear. Where my sister could be a kid again, where Maisie could grow up untainted. Tristan could be there too. Sprawled on a sunbed, laughing at something stupid I’d said, eyes half-closed, skin warm and unguarded. Frolicking in the sea this time, not a grimy lake. And the world pared back to salt and skin and nothing sharp enough to cut any of us.

Not this city. Not his. Not mine.

That was the thing Cormac had dangled. Not the villa. Not the money.