Page 7 of Crave

Cormac didn’t tolerate seepage. If another crew started shifting on our turf, I didn’t get to negotiate, I got to end it. Fast. Clean. Public enough to make a point. If Ghost took Hackney, even a slice of it, that failure would land on me. That was how turf wars started. Not with gunfire. With small encroachments. One missing runner. One corner flipped. Then suddenly it was open season.

And I was slap bang in the middle of one.

I stood, then held out my hand to Billy. “Give it.”

He sniffed, chin wobbling. “I need the money.”

“I said give it.”

Billy dug in his joggers, hand shaking, and slapped two little bags into my palm. I didn’t waste time and chucked them through the open window at Tyler. “Sort it.”

“Fuck, mate!” Tyler barked, lunging for the stash.

I pulled a roll of cash from my pocket, the roll I’d taken fifty for myself from, and snatched a twenty. “Take this.” I handed it to Billy. “Get your mum some proper chicken. Then go down Lennon’s boxing gym and tell him you want teaching. But you go near Ghost again, I’ll crack your skull. You hear?”

Billy took the note, nodded with one part shame and the other relief, then pedalled off with that stupid chin-up swagger kids copy from the older heads. Out of my sight. No longer my problem or tugging on a conscience I couldn’t afford to have.

Tyler tutted. “No wonder we’re losing the line with your bleeding heart.”

I looked at him. Quiet. Calm. There he went again, mouthing off, thinking I’d gone soft. Believing I’d lost my edge. That I’d misplaced it with rules and conscience. So I proved I was still me. Razor. And before he could blink, I slid my hand through the window, splayed my fingers around the back of his head and slammed him face first into the dash. The smack echoed.

“You test me again,” I leered in through the window, pinning him to the plastic and watching the blood ooze from his nose, “and I’ll feed you to the fucking pigs. We clear?”

He swallowed, tried to nod and failed, so I let him stay still. And when I eased off, I walked around the car and dropped back into the driver’s seat, calm as you fucking like. I glanced at Tyler still face down on my dash.

“You’re making a fucking mess.” I yanked him back and saw the blood. “Jesus.” I popped open the glove box, grabbed an old cloth and shoved it at him. “You know the rules.”

“Man’s gotta eat.” Tyler held the cloth to his nose as if that’d fix more than the bleeding. Hopefully it’d patch up his insubordination, too.

“Yeah?” I kept my voice flat. “And kids feed you how? You planning to invoice them in guilt?”

Tyler snorted, thick with sarcasm. “Ghost’s boys are creeping onto our corners. Clean runs, no bullshit. Pills cheap, powder loose. They’re undercutting every price we’ve got. If we don’t plug the gaps, we lose runners, we lose customers.” He shot me a look. “But sure, let’s keep doing background checks. Make sure the workforce have their NI number.”

I tightened my grip on the wheel. I didn’t need the reminder. Didn’t need the tone either. But I needed the truth. “You found out what he’s moving?”

“Ecstasy.” Tyler dropped the cloth into his lap like a sulky toddler who thought he was above reprimand. “Pressed bright, shaped like sweets. Fivers a pop to get school kids hooked. Bags of MD with it. And he’s pushing low-grade coke through the little ones for fast turnover. Last week they were handing out free tasters outside the chemist on Kingsley. Now half the estate’s kids think they’re starting a fucking collection.”

He rattled it off as if dumping a bag of shit straight onto my lap and expecting me to thank him for it. Fair enough. I’d left him to handle the Ghost problem while I scratched my other itch.

“He’s got a couple Fenboys shifting tabs for him on the side,” Tyler went on. “Better markup, clean supply. If we don’t match or shut it down, we’ll get bled dry.”

Fenboys. Rival crew. We’d had run ins. Who hadn’t. I’d ended most of them.

I sucked in a breath. “You mix kids into that, you’re not matching. You’re begging Ghost to take the lot. And the pills? Who’s pressing them? We need the source.”

“Bloke out of Bethnal Green. Claims he’s got a mate on the docks. Jax, or whatever. Pills look clean but they’re turning to chalk. He’s punting them stupid cheap. Shifting ’em faster than we can test ’em. And the feds are circling. Ambos had three OD callouts off the same batch last week.”

Overdoses. The word cut cold in my mouth. It wasn’t the money that prickled. It was the bodies.

“We don’t push that shit, Tyler.” I punched the wheel. “Not that junk that kills heads. You know my line.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” His impatience bled more than his nose. “But Ghost’s undercutting, people are walking off. Runners want safer cash. Kids like Billy are cheap and desperate.”

I flicked the indicator once, then off. Rain ticked on the bonnet. “Runners can be replaced. Kids can’t.” I spat the words. “We keep our customers clean, our runners adults, our product tested. That’s why we last. That’s what keeps me breathing. And you by my side. Whatever. You get that?”

Tyler narrowed his eyes, playing the hard man, but the cloth in his grip told me he’d felt the slam. “So what then? We sit and watch Ghost take the patch?”

“No.” I put my hand flat on the wheel. “We do what we always do. Close ranks. Cut Jax out if he’s rolling poison. Pull our guys from the Kingsley run and replace with trusted heads. Put Ste on watch at the drop points; he’s got eyes and no love for that prick Ghost. Clean the product. Test every batch.”