Page 6

I slide my black balaclava over my face, and Jac follows suit in the driver's seat. Our guns click in the quiet rumble of the SUV as we take off the safeties and shove them into the deep pockets of our black bomber jackets.

“This better not take us longer than it needs to,” Jac says, his words muffled through the cotton of his mask.

A grainy voice cuts through the handheld radio perched inside a cup holder in the middle console. “We’re stationed nearby.” An ending chime follows.

Jac nods his head at me before sliding the radio into his free pocket.

Turning off the engine, we both exit the car, our doors slamming shut and echoing through the empty shipping docks. There are no ships or signs of new cargo, just seemingly empty containers—which isn’t a rare sight, but there’s one thing that sets my body on immediate alert. There are multiple blacked-out four-by-fours dotted around the large concrete area.

Jac’s head slowly turns as he takes in the vehicles before he finally lands on me and narrows his eyes.

A group of three guys—also dressed in all black—stand by the only blue shipping container, which should be carrying our supply. Their attention is centred on us.

“What the fuck?” Jac whispers.

“The Italians all of a sudden need more security?”

Jac shrugs in response, and I hear a quiet bleep of the radio in his pocket.

He’s sent an alert to our men.

I dip my head at the three guys, and we begin to make our way over to our target of the night.

The closer we get to them, the more I worry that I don’t recognise these guys.

Our footsteps echo in the strained silence of the night.

Everything about this is wrong. These aren’t our usual suppliers, and the supply is sitting right in the middle of the dock, with a single streetlamp shining down onto it. Had we not disturbed the CCTV cameras here, that would be incriminating material.

I clutch the pistol inside my pocket, my finger resting on the trigger. They’re seemingly unarmed, but we’d be stupid to think otherwise.

As we approach—halting just metres from them—the man in the middle with a clean-shaven head, who looks about twenty years older than us, steps forward.

“You Xander?” he asks, a strong Turkish accent bouncing off the metal containers around us, his tone nothing short of trying to be intimidating.

Turkish.

Not Italian.

“Where are our men?” Jac fires back, leaving no room for introductions.

“I asked if you were Xander.”

I press my finger to the trigger more firmly, but not enough to set off any bullets yet. “No, I am,” I assert.

His head snaps to me, a slow grin growing on his face, revealing a single gold tooth in the front. My brows furrow beneath my mask, and Jac tenses beside me.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jac snaps impatiently, causing them all to focus on him.

Baldy takes slow steps towards him, and his lackeys shuffle behind him. The guy is about two feet smaller than Jac, but he continues his approach anyway. I mentally laugh at that; the guy has a death wish challenging my best friend.

"I'd watch your mouth, boy. Your shipment is right behind me," he threatens, taking a slow look at the container, then winks at Jac.

Jac chuckles darkly through his mask. "Take one more step towards me, old man. I dare you."

"Ahmet," another man wearing a beanie hat pipes up, clearing his throat.

Baldy breaks away from their stare-off, walking back towards the cargo containers.