Page 33 of Corrupt

The leather chair creaked under him. “But I heard there was… some commotion with it all.”

I glanced at Doyle. He didn’t look up. He turned another page of the Metro. But Tyler gave the faintest clear of his throat. Our code. He was with me. And I knew if I got turned into mincemeat for the overpriced burgers in the restaurant, then he’d go with me. Stupid bastard probably thought the two of us together could take Doyle and Cormac. They were older, sure. On the slope into their sixties.

But they were also very, very fucking scary.

Cormac cocked his head; all innocence wrapped in barbed wire. “You take a disliking to a customer, Razor?”

“Wouldn’t say it was a disliking,” I said. “I took precautions. Something felt off with him. Didn’t like the way he was scoping the place. Last thing we need is heat when we’re expanding. I made the call, so it didn’t become your problem.”

Cormac stared me down. And I stared right back, planting myself where I stood. No blinking. No flinch. If I backed off even an inch, I was done. Then Cormac laughed. Bold as brass, full-bodied, as if I’d told the best joke of his week. The sound hit me square in the gut, cold and hard. I didn’t let it show. Fuck no. I locked my jaw and waited him out. Even Doyle let out a tiny chortle. Could’ve been at whatever joke Cormac thought he’d found, or maybe the cartoon strip in his paper. Hard to tell with Doyle. Either way, I weren’t amused.

Could be I’d end up the amuse-bouche in a minute though.

“Right, lad.” Cormac switched the humour off as fast as he’d switched it on. His whole face went still. “I’ve got something for you.”

For a stupid second, I hoped it was a bonus. I’d been eyeing up a new motor, one without bullet holes, but Cormac steepled his fingers, and I knew hope had been a fucking idiot.

“We’re expanding a line,” he said.

I didn’t answer. I waited. Like a good little soldier.

Cormac nodded towards the duffel bag by his boot. Black. Heavy. Half-zipped, as if it was breathing.

“New product,” he said. “High-end, clean. Exclusively ours. And I want it routed through you only.”

He pushed the bag towards me with his foot.

I crouched, unzipped it, and the smell hit first. Chemical-sweet, faint, familiar. Inside were packets. Dozens of them. Sealed tight, heat-pressed foil, each containing small rose-tinted crystals with a faint shimmer. Not the chalky crap we cut for the Shoreditch boys. This was boutique. Purpose-built. Expensive as fuck.

The air in the room tightened.

I picked up a packet, turned it over, and saw the logo: Two Ps mirrored upside down. Looked like a fucking sixty-nine. Course it did. Dirty bastards.

“Pretty Poison,” I read.

Doyle’s newspaper didn’t rustle, but I felt him look up.

Cormac watched me with flat interest. “That’s the name. You’ll take point. Move it carefully. Selectively. Discretion is everything.”

I pinched a tiny corner through the foil. Not opening it, just feeling the grain. Crystalline, hard-edged, not powder-soft. MDMA base, but cut finer. 2C-B, maybe. They’d engineered this shit to glow.

“Who’s the supplier?” I glanced up.

Cormac’s mouth ticked, not quite a smile. “Not your concern.”

His face made the back of my neck prickle. It wasn’t anger. Nor disappointment. But there was definite calculation. As if he were sliding me into a box he’d already nailed shut.

“And if I say no?”

Cormac smiled. “You can’t.”

A quiet sound came from Tyler. Barely a breath, barely there. But enough to tell me he felt the squeeze of the room too.

“Alright.” I closed my fingers around the edge of the duffel. “I’ll run it.”

Cormac stood, smoothing his jacket. “Good lad.” He stepped up to me and tapped my cheek, hard enough to sting, then pinched it between his thumb and finger like he would a fucking baby. “Knew I could count on you.”

When Cormac left the room with Doyle trailing after him, tossing the Metro on the sofa as if he’d stepped off the District line, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. Tyler shut the door with a soft click, then turned to face me.