Page 37 of Crave

He nudged it forward with his boot. “Two keys. Fresh batch. Cormac’s orders.”

I pulled one bag up, turned it in my hand, sniffed it. Good cut, no sour tang. “Clean.”

“Wouldn’t hand you dirt,” Kade said. “Cormac don’t like reworks. You know that.”

I did. Cormac ran things the way I did. Clean. Quiet. Structured. You did your job, you got paid, and you didn’t make noise. He didn’t want soldiers. He wanted systems. So we talked price, usual game. I shaved a few notes off because one of my lads had a newborn and needed a top-up. Kade didn’t blink. Men like him respected loyalty. It kept the line stable.

When we were done, Rowan finally spoke. “You heard about Ghost?”

I looked up. “What about him?”

“Making noise again. Couple of lads up near Hackney Wick say his lot been creeping further west. Offering better cuts. Trying to poach.”

I zipped the bag shut. “They try my patch, they’ll find out how far west they get.”

Kade grinned, teeth yellow and honest. “Just saying. Keep your eyes up. Word is Ghost’s got new backing. Some big player out of Manchester.”

“Everyone’s got backing.” I pushed back from the table. “Don’t mean they got discipline.”

We left it there. No threats. No talk of guns. Just men who understood how close business and blood sat on the same ledger. And no indication that I already knew what Ghost was moving. That was mine to sort

Outside, the day had turned thin and cold. I lit a cigarette, made my way down the street, checked messages, confirmed the drop-offs. Moved from one spot to the next like a heartbeat keeping time. That’s what the job was. Not glamour. Not chaos.

Logistics. Control.

I’m a cog. Reliable. Replaceable.

Cormac was above me, a genuine Irish lunatic. He controlled five lines across East and North London, perhaps more. Who he answered to was irrelevant. Maybe he answered to God, maybe no one. The point was, I didn't see him unless he summoned me. When his number rang, the only reason was trouble. I cherished the silences. Those were the good days; proof that my patch was clean, the flow was steady, and all was happening. If I ever heard his voice, I had to already know the answer to whatever demand he was about to make, or I was finished.

Dead.

My family too.

I swung by the van, checked the stash. Dry, untouched. Then called Layton about the buggy for Keeley. He’d sort one cheap from a mate’s market stall. We agreed the price and drop off, so I phoned her on the way back towards Tariq’s.

“You good?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, the telly loud in the background. “You got me that buggy?”

“Layton’s dropping it off later. Don’t give him nothing but a thank you, yeah?”

“Thanks, Richie!”

By the time I got back to QuickFix, the sky had gone the colour of gunmetal, and the cranes were slicing through it. Tariq looked up as I walked in, grin spreading.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Whoever owns this is dumb as fuck.” He handed the phone to me. “Or doesn’t give a fuck about it.”

I took it and thumbed it open. I was in. Messages, apps the lot. “How’d you get in?”

“Stupid prick had the passcode as sixty-nine sixty-nine sixty-nine.”

chapter nine

Tristan

Mother booked the whole morning for us. Some essential mother-son performance while she unleashed Amelia onto Sloane Street with an open credit card.