Page 24 of Crave

Standing here, watching a pair of Ghost’s runners wave a knife at him.

Don’t get me wrong, I was ready. That blade wouldn’t have got within an inch of that pretty face, not while I had breath. I’d have been across that road quick enough to carve them out if they’d so much as disturbed one hair on his head. I’d let them see why they called me Razor and let the bastards live to tell it, but they’d be walking different.

And that’s the kicker.

When the fuck did I get possessive over a bought boy?

My stomach twisted. The smoke in my throat went sour. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or something else. Probably shouldn’t look too closely at what, either. So I took my final drag that was down to the brown, then dropped the cigarette and watched the ember hit the pavement, flare once before I stamped it out. Then I crossed the road.

One of them clocked me, face bleaching white.

“Shit! It’s Razor!” He shoved the other one. “Move!”

Right. They knew me.

As they fucking should.

Which left no excuses as to what they’d done.

They ran. Trainers skidding on wet concrete, one of them glancing back with that stupid mix of fear and fake confidence. It made me move faster, and I hit the tarmac hard, water splashing up my shins, tower blocks looming on either side. Graffiti, satellite dishes, dead windows staring down as if they’d seen it all. The air stank of chip fat and weed. Sodium lights washed everything the colour of old bruises. Shutters down on every shopfront, metal scratched with names and tags I recognised. A dog barked once and shut up fast.

And yeah, I wished I’d changed out of the fucking leather. It slapped against my back as if I was in some slow-mo action film.

Nothing slow about me though. Nor heroic.

Streets blurred past, council grey, fly-posters peeling in strips. The lads cut left into a narrow backway. Stupid move. Less space. No escape. Dead end at the far wall, brick slick with old damp where the first one hit it and turned too late. I crashed into him, shoulder to spine, driving him face-first into the grit. He went down hard, coughing up rainwater and blood. Then the other spun, blade snapping, fast and messy, hands trembling as if he’d been born with panic in them. Fear lived in his eyes; his jaw worked to hide it. Up close, he reeked of energy drinks and cheap soap, the smell of boys who never learnt to wash away what they were. I didn’t like him. He’d come onto my road flashing someone else’s brass and thought that bought him licence.

Nah. I liked the sound the street made when I shut people down.

“Put it down,” I said. Close enough to taste the fear on him.

He swung. Wild and amateur. So I caught his wrist, twisted till the knife skittered and struck the brick, pinning the blade between us and drove him back. I felt his panic battering against my forearm, and he flailed, all elbows and noise, until I cracked him across the jaw with the flat of my hand. He folded, air ripping out of him. The first kid tried to scramble up, but I kicked him back down, grabbed the knife, slid the point under his chin.

“Don’t move.” I shook my head in warning. “Not a fucking twitch.”

He didn’t. His throat jumped, eyes wide as saucers.

The other tried to lunge, though. All bright-eyed stupidity. But I planted an arm out and kept him at bay. “You cross me, this goes in him.”

He froze. Backed off.

“Good.” I kept my voice flat, darting my attention from the kid on the ground to the one itching to leg it. He wanted to run. I could tell. Shit foot soldier. That’s the thing about running a patch: you need mates who don’t flinch. Loyalty. People who’d stand when the bullets started. I’d earned mine the hard way.

None of them were here now, though.

I could call them. Tyler, the lads on my corners, the runners who’d drop everything for me. They’d be here in a flash; I could have this sorted before last orders. But I didn’t ring. Two reasons. First, these two were soft as clay; they’d folded on sight. I didn’t need the muscle to make the point. I was the fucking muscle. Second, and more important, I had questions I wanted answers to. Answers I didn’t want shouted down the line or muddied by other people’s mouths.

Let Ghost bring his lot if he wanted noise.

I wanted the truth.

“Right.” I shifted my weight off one boot. “We keeping this civil?”

The kid on the ground gave a jerky nod. The other one did what I expected. He bolted down the alley, trainers splashing through puddles. Fucking coward.

I turned back to the one left behind. “You need better mates, bruv.”

“I didn’t do nuffink,” he stammered, voice thin, throat bobbing hard.