Jamie Riley 

Early morning light slid across the pavement, turning the cool grey a soft silver and casting long, quiet shadows between parked cars. Jamie leaned against the hood of his own ride, a black and polished beauty, with his arms crossed and a half-burnt cigarette between two fingers. He wasn’t looking at the horizon, but he felt it. That quiet moment before the day really started, when everything held its breath.

Twelve years in this life. Twelve years since he and Anthony—or Tino, as people knew him now—had made the same decision, one after the other, like falling dominoes. They were kids then, fourteen and eleven, still baby-faced, hearts still beating soft. They’d joined the Cortez Crew like it was a door opening into somewhere bigger.

Actually, it had been. Bigger, darker and bloodier. Not everyone from their old crew had made it past the first few years. Overdoses. Car crashes. Wrong place, wrong time. Turf gone hot. Names carved into memory but fading from the street. He didn’t say them out loud anymore. What was the point?

Tino and him were the ones who stuck around. They put in the work, climbed the ladder, got their hands dirty enough to earn respect and keep it. Debt collection, security, operations. Quiet jobs, loud ones. They made sure the gang’s name carried weight. The kind of name that made people look twice before turning their back.

A low growl of an engine pulled his attention. Jamie took another drag and watched as a beat-up sedan lumbered into the lot, tires crunching against the gravel like bones. It wasn’t Tino’s car. It was too boxy, too loud, and too fucking ugly.

Then it hit him. Of course it wasn’t Tino’s car. That one was totaled last week, wrapped around a traffic pole in the middle of the night. He had probably been high. He had always driven like a man who thought the road was his personal race track, especially after a few lines. Jamie had stopped being surprised a long time ago. At this point, it was like waiting for a train wreck that everyone knew was coming. The guy could barely keep it together when he was sober, but throw in a little trouble and Tino was practically bulletproof.

The door of the sedan creaked open. Tino jumped out, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, a grin on his face like he owned every mistake he’d ever made. “Borrowed the ugly one. Cousin’s. Said it runs, at least.”

“You’re lucky it runs. Thought you’d have a funeral for that other car by now.”

Tino shrugged like it was nothing. “High-speed crash at three a.m.? I call that a warm-up.”

Jamie snorted. Tino strolled up and, without asking, slipped a hand into the pocket of Jamie’s jacket to fish out a cigarette. Jamie didn’t flinch, he was used to the invasion by now.

“So,” Tino said, pulling one out and twirling it between his fingers. “What’s the grand plan, Mr. Big Brain? Or am I just here to make you look good?

Jamie flicked ash from his own cigarette. “A guy missed his payment. It’s a straightforward job. Don’t turn it into a mess.”

Tino laughed, a rough, bright sound that bounced off the ground. He bumped Jamie’s shoulder as he lit up. “Mess? I’m the spark this whole thing needs.”

“Spark’s only good until it sets the place on fire.”

Tino blew a lazy stream of smoke. “I’m chaos with purpose.”

Jamie never admitted it, but the guy had a way of making him laugh, even if it was just to avoid losing his mind.

When the last drag was done, they climbed into the car. Tino slid behind the wheel like it wasn’t borrowed from someone probably too stoned to notice it missing.

“Wanna know something fucked up?” Tino said as they pulled out of the lot, one hand draped over the wheel, the other hanging loose out the window. “Giraffes are ten times more likely to get hit by lightning. Saw it on TV. They walking lightning rods.”

Jamie didn’t look up. “Interesting.” His tone was flat and unimpressed. He was scrolling through his phone, looking for the address they'd been sent earlier that morning, his thumb moving with the same steady rhythm as his thoughts. He gave a small nod when the turn came up. “Left here.”

Tino obeyed, with a little too much flair. The turn was sharp and fast enough to make the old tires screech, cutting off a car that was heading their way. The driver slammed the brakes, horn blaring in fury. Tino didn’t even seem to notice.

“Heard about a guy who got struck twice,” he continued. “Fucking twice. Can you imagine? Holy shit. You survive it once, and then boom! God takes another shot. That’s gotta fuck with your head.”

“Maybe he deserved it.”

Tino smirked. “Probably.”

Jamie shifted in the passenger seat when the gun in his waistband pressed uncomfortably against him. His gaze drifted to the window, but his mind was already blocks ahead, walking through doorways that hadn’t been opened yet, counting moments that hadn’t even happened. The job lived in his head like a blueprint: clean lines, cold facts, quiet consequences. That’s how he liked it.

Tino, on the other hand, was still talking. Words spilled out of him like sparks off live wire. He hadn't changed one bit. Sure, the grime wasn’t as thick on him these days. He wore jackets without holes now, shoes that hadn’t been fished out of a dumpster, and his hair looked like it had seen a comb sometime in the past week. He had a soft face, androgynous almost, which always seemed at odds with the temper he carried like a second skin. Maybe that’s why he overcompensated with the piercings and tattoos. There were gold rings in his ears, a matching one hooked through his left nostril, and the ink crawling down his arms told stories no one ever got to hear. A chaotic sprawl of symbols, phrases, and fucked-up imagery that matched the storm inside him.

But Jamie could still see the boy underneath all that. The one with dirt under his fingernails and scabs on his knees, wearing shirts either two sizes too small or two sizes too big, and pants torn at the heel that dragged behind him. The boy who never smelled like soap. Who showed up half-starved and half-wild and dared the world to say something about it.

Now he just wore it better. The recklessness and aggression had sharpened, like rusted edges turned into blades. He still picked fights for no reason, still grinned through busted lips, still treated life like it owed him something and he was collecting in blood. It didn’t matter how much money they made or how high they climbed. Anthony was still the same disaster in a better jacket.

They rolled up to the building and the engine’s hum cut off abruptly when Tino turned the key. He leaned across Jamie and popped open the glove compartment with a rough motion, retrieving the matte black pistol resting inside. He tucked it into the waistband of his grey sweatpants like it was a wallet.

“How many?” Tino asked, angling his face toward the rearview mirror. He pulled off his beanie with one hand, tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat without looking, then ruffled his hair like it had been bothering him for hours. Jamie watched him fidget, how his fingers tugged at the collar of his hoodie, how his leg bounced lightly, never quite able to stay still.

He had always been a restless guy, but lately Jamie couldn't shake the thought that the drugs might be a part of it. Not that Tino was an addict. At least not the way Jamie saw it. But he definitely pushed too far sometimes, whether it was pills, powders, or whatever else he could find. Most of the time, Jamie could tell when he was sober. Other times, it was impossible to say. A lot of the guys used, and Jamie wasn’t innocent either.

He slid his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “Just two. John’s the one we’re here for.”

The building in front of them was one of those ageing apartment blocks that had long since lost its name and dignity. Just peeling paint, water stains running down the walls, and a broken intercom. They didn’t need it anyway.

The elevator groaned and rattled as it crept upward to the fourth floor. Jamie kept count of the worn steps leading to the door on the right, mentally rehearsing what he was about to say, last-minute details, reminders, warnings. His hand hovered, ready to break the silence. Tino was faster. Without a word, he stepped forward and slammed his fist against the door, three rapid, vicious thuds that echoed sharply in the narrow hallway like a warning shot. Jamie exhaled a long, tired sigh.

He could feel the raw energy radiating off Tino like a lit fuse burning dangerously close. Tino’s body practically vibrated with a jittery cocktail of adrenaline and anticipation, like he loved what was coming. Like violence was an old friend he couldn’t wait to see again.

The door cracked open, just a sliver. Tino raised his foot and kicked. The door slammed back with a brutal bang that rattled the thin walls, crashing into the chipped paint like a thunderclap. It bounced off the frame with a sickening groan, the wood protesting under the sudden force.

Inside, a young man in nothing but boxers screamed, staggering backward with wild eyes and nearly tripping over his own feet. Another man sat at a chipped table, frozen mid-motion.

“Knock knock,” Tino said cheerfully, the barrel of his gun already aimed with surgical precision at the first guy’s chest.

There was a twisted kind of art to the way Tino moved. Like watching a wild animal pacing before it strikes. Jamie didn’t always understand it, and he didn’t always agree with it, but he couldn’t deny it was captivating. The way Tino threw himself headfirst into danger, like mayhem was a game he knew the rules to better than anyone, was both infuriating and strangely entertaining.

Jamie stepped in behind him. He scanned the room with quick efficiency, eyes narrowing on the man in boxers. Thin. Nervous. Guilty all over.

“John, I assume?”

The man didn’t answer, but the panic written across his face did. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling quickly as his gaze flickered between Tino’s gun and Jamie, searching desperately for an escape that wasn’t there.

“We’re here for the money,” Jamie said. “Three weeks overdue. That’s a long time, John.”

John’s lips quivered uncontrollably. “I—I have it, just not right now. Give me a few days and—”

“A few days?” Tino sneered, stepping forward with deliberate menace. “We ain’t the fucking bank, Johnny.”

John stumbled back, pressed against the wall. John’s friend, seated at the cracked table, started to rise in panic, but Jamie raised a steady hand and shook his head sharply. The man’s fingers trembled as he sank back down, eyes fixed on the floor.

John opened his mouth again, maybe to beg, maybe to lie, but Tino wasn’t in the mood to listen. He swung the butt of the gun hard into John’s stomach. The man doubled over with a choked grunt, the wind knocked clean out of him.

“You training for a marathon or something?” Tino grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and slammed his head back against the wall. The drywall cracked behind him. “‘Cause you been running from this debt like it’s fucking cardio.”

“I—I swear I’ll get it, j-just—”

Tino cut him off with a savage blow to the face. Blood burst from John’s nose, and before he could cry out, Tino struck again, lower this time, jamming the barrel of the gun into his ribs. John crumpled to his knees, coughing, blood and spit dribbling down his chin. The next hit came clean as Tino brought the gun down across John’s head.

Jamie stepped in and gripped Tino’s shoulder. His hand lingered a moment longer before pulling away and Tino stepped back, two slow steps, leaving space. Jamie moved past him and crouched beside John, who was swaying, barely upright, blinking through the blood.

“You’ve got twenty-four hours,” Jamie said. “Or we’ll drag your kids and your wife out of their beds and make them pay. You understand?”

John nodded frantically, mouthing promises through a mouthful of blood and shame.

He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans like the air in here had dirtied him. Then he looked at Tino and gave a single nod toward the door. Tino gave John one last glance, more amused than angry now, before he turned and walked out behind Jamie.