THE MUSTANG HUMMED through Hunts Point's industrial wasteland, sliding between rusted containers and abandoned maritime buildings.

Dawn bled gray across the East River, casting long shadows over forgotten docks where Pavel's "workshop" waited—not a garage, but a decaying waterfront warehouse that had seen better days during New York's shipping boom.

Chiji parked a block away, the car's engine dying with a low growl. The river lapped against rotting pilings, a rhythmic backdrop to their silent preparation. Drizzle misted the windshield, the night's weight—cleaners, Alexei, the motel's heat—pressing on him. Svetlana sat beside him, gun on her lap, the ledger in a black duffel at her feet, her frost-sharp gaze scanning the waterfront's industrial graveyard.

"This is your forger's place?" Chiji asked, voice rough from no sleep. His jaw ached, his cut palm itched, but her touch from the motel lingered—a distraction he couldn't afford.

"Pavel likes privacy," she replied, checking her clip with a soft click. "Waterfront's perfect. Quiet. No cameras. No witnesses."

"Right," Chiji said, forcing himself to ignore the no witnesses. "So, front door?"

"Exactly," she exhaled, eyes sharp. "They won't see it coming. Pavel's clean—just stay close and keep up."

"Clean's relative with you," he muttered, grabbing his crowbar. A black sedan idled two blocks down—too still, too polished for this grit. "That's not Alexei's crew."

She squinted, jaw tightening. "Feds, maybe. Watching Pavel. We're still good—go."

"Feds?" Chiji's heart slammed against his ribs. This was a whole new level of trouble. The Russian mafia was one thing—federal agents were a different beast.

"Relax." Svetlana smirked, giving his shoulder a light but firm punch. "We just need to move fast. Go."

They moved like shadows—her boots silent on wet concrete, his sneakers leaving faint prints. The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking metal skeleton covered in decades of graffiti and rust. A faded maritime company logo was barely visible beneath layers of street art—a ghost of economic past.

Pavel's "office" was a converted shipping container welded onto the warehouse's side, windows reinforced with chicken wire, the door secured by a industrial-strength padlock. Chiji caught the hint of a security camera—old, probably non-functional, but a warning nonetheless.

He rapped a complex rhythm on the door—three quick taps, pause, two slow knocks. Their pre-arranged signal.

Silence.

"Something's wrong," Svetlana muttered, hand sliding to her gun.

The door creaked open. Pavel emerged—not from inside, but from behind the container, a cigarette dangling from his lips, one eye covered by a black patch that looked more like a fashion statement than a true disability.

"Sveta. You're early," he rasped, Russian accent thick as motor oil. His good eye—steel gray and sharp—looked them up and down. "And followed."

"Always am," Svetlana replied, stepping forward. "This is Chijioke. He's with me. Ledger—check it, fast."

Pavel's gaze lingered on Chiji, sizing him up like a piece of merchandise. "Tough enough to handle what's coming?"

Chiji tapped the crowbar against his leg, a subtle threat. "Tough enough."

Pavel smirked, waving them to a workbench littered with parts. "Inside. Quick. Streets are hot—cops been circling since last night."

The shutter clanged shut, sealing them in. The interior was a maze of maritime salvage—rusted chains, old navigation equipment, stacks of wooden crates that might have held anything from ship supplies to contraband. A workbench dominated the space, covered in tools, maps, and communication equipment that looked military-grade but decidedly off-market.

"The ledger," Pavel said, not a question. "Let me see."

Svetlana unzipped the duffel, revealing the leather-bound book. Pavel pulled out a magnifying glass, muttering in Russian as he traced Dmitry's coded entries. Names, dates, financial trails that could bring down an entire underground network.

Chiji paced, restless, the ledger's stakes gnawing at him—girls sold, Anya's ghost, justice dangling. He scanned for exits—back door, office window—then froze at a scribbled note taped to a shelf: Call L—pickup confirmed, 3/2, $5M. Below it, a symbol—a coiled snake, ink smudged but deliberate.

"What's this?" Chiji asked, pointing, curiosity overriding caution.

Svetlana's head snapped up, her face tightening. "Nothing. Leave it."

Pavel glanced over, cigarette dangling. "Not nothing. That's Livia's mark—snake bitch, runs the cleaners out of Jersey. Been asking about Dmitry's books for months."

"Livia?" Chiji's voice sharpened. "Who's she?"

"Trouble you don't need," Svetlana snapped, ripping the note down and crumpling it. "She's a ghost—handles dirty work for anyone with cash. Doesn't matter."

"Don't matter?" Pavel snorted, flipping a page. "She's no ghost—real as hell. Word is, she's hunting that ledger too. Wants to flip it to the Feds—burn Dmitry and cash out."

"Feds?" Chiji rounded on Svetlana, suspicion flaring. "You said this was your trade—your buyer. Now some Jersey cleaner's in on it?"

Her eyes met his, cold as steel. "Pavel talks too much. Livia's a rumor—nobody I'm dealing with. Focus."

"Ledger's legit," Pavel cut in, oblivious to the tension. "Dmitry's hand, no fakes—cops, traffickers, payoffs. You've got dynamite here, Sveta. Livia'd kill for this."

"Then she won't get it," Svetlana said, zipping the duffel. "We're set for the trade—my buyer, my rules."

"Who?" Chiji pressed, voice low. "Not Feds, not Livia—who's this mystery savior?"

"You drive," she said, sharp. "That's enough."

Before Chiji could push, the office window shattered, glass spraying inward as a canister clattered across the floor, hissing thick, white smoke. Tear gas.

He coughed, eyes burning, as Pavel cursed and yanked a shotgun from under the counter.

"Feds!" Pavel bellowed, firing blindly at the door. "Go—back exit!"

Svetlana didn't hesitate. She snatched the duffel, hacking through the gas, and bolted for the office—Chiji right behind her, crowbar tight in his grip. Gunfire erupted outside, sharp and controlled. Not Pavel's shotgun. Handguns. Precise. The Feds weren't playing.

Svetlana slammed into the back door, kicking it open. Smoke billowed around them as they staggered into the alley, lungs searing, adrenaline screaming through their veins.

The Mustang gleamed fifty feet away—salvation, if they could reach it.

Behind them, boots pounded against the pavement—heavy, tactical, closing fast.

Svetlana pivoted, raising her gun, and fired two shots into the swirling smoke. A sharp yelp. A body hit the pavement.

"Move!" she snapped.

Chiji didn't need to be told twice. Adrenaline roared through him, the Lagos streets flashing in his mind—outrunning gangs, dodging knives. Now it was the Feds, and the stakes were life or death.

A burst of gunfire had them diving behind a stack of wooden pallets. Bullets splintered wood inches from Chiji's face. Svetlana peeked out, eyes sharp, and fired off another round.

"We're boxed in," he gritted.

"Not if we kill the box," she shot back.

Another round of gunfire forced them lower. Chiji's pulse hammered. He wasn't built for this. But survival? That, he knew. He grabbed a loose brick and hurled it down the alley. The impact sent trash cans crashing, a perfect distraction.

The gunfire shifted.

"Now!" Svetlana lunged forward, dragging Chiji with her.

They sprinted, dodging between crates, their cover disappearing as bullets ricocheted off metal. Twenty feet. Ten.

A Fed emerged from the smoke, raising his weapon. Chiji barely saw Svetlana move—just a flash of steel. A switchblade—Chiji had no idea how it ended up in her grip—sank deep into the man's throat. A gurgled gasp, a shudder, then he crumpled.

They reached the Mustang.

Chiji flung the door open and dove in as Svetlana slid across the hood with liquid grace—a move that would've impressed him if death weren't breathing down their necks. She landed in the passenger seat, gun already drawn, a predator ready to strike.

"Drive!" she snapped, twisting to face the rear window, her platinum hair whipping across her face.

Chiji didn't need the order. His hands were steady—muscle memory from Lagos street races and desperate escapes—but his heart hammered against his ribs.

The rearview mirror flared with light: the black sedan from earlier barreling around the corner like a shark scenting blood.

"Shit," he hissed, downshifting and weaving through Hunts Point's industrial labyrinth.

Metal fire escapes blurred past. Graffitied warehouses became a kaleidoscope of color and shadow. The sedan surged closer, headlights searing, eating up the distance between them.

Svetlana braced herself, window already down, wind whipping her jacket. "Keep it steady,"

"Steady?" Chiji shot back, a half-laugh escaping. "With bullets flying? You want to drive?"

Her eyes met his—arctic blue, cold and calculating. "Shut the fuck up and do it."

Something in her tone—part challenge, part absolute certainty—made his pulse spike. She wasn't asking. She was commanding.

She leaned out the window, arm rigid, body a perfect shooting platform. Two sharp cracks split the morning air—each shot precisely timed, each finding its mark with surgical precision.

The sedan lurched. One of its front tires exploded with a violent pop, rubber and steel shredding in a spectacular burst. Metal screamed as the car spun out of control, fishtailing straight into a dumpster.

Svetlana ducked back inside, breath ragged, the scent of smoke and gunpowder clinging to her like a second skin. "Lost 'em," she muttered, but her eyes never stopped scanning.

Chiji didn't ease up. Years of dodging trouble in Lagos, of surviving by inches, translated into driving that was part skill, part pure instinct. He wove through the industrial maze, shifting gears like a concert pianist—each movement deliberate, lethal.

"For now," he growled, more to himself than her. His mind raced faster than the Mustang's engine. "Livia—whoever the hell she is—you're holding out. And the Feds? They're not after Dmitry. They're after us now."

Svetlana wiped her eyes, her voice hoarse. "Livia's a scavenger. She doesn't want justice—she wants leverage. The ledger is currency to her, nothing more."

"And your buyer?" he pressed, turning down a narrow street lined with shipping containers.

Something flickered in her eyes—vulnerability, quickly masked. "Clean," she said, but the word wavered. "Someone who'll end this. That's all you need to know."

He gritted his teeth. Lies layered on top of lies.

"Collateral," she said, her voice dropping to that cold register that sent shivers down his spine.

Chiji's eyes flicked to her. "What?"

"Your cab's on their radar—Brooklyn warehouse tipped them off. We're loose ends."

"Loose ends," Chiji repeated, a bitter laugh escaping. "Story of my life."

His mind flashed to Lagos—sixteen, running from gang territories, one step ahead of blades and bullets. Nothing had changed except the geography. Different city, same survival dance.

Svetlana's hand brushed the ledger, a protective gesture that spoke volumes. "We've got less than forty-eight hours," she said. "That's all we need."

"Forty-eight hours," he echoed. "To what? Get killed?"

"You're fucking insufferable." Svetlana exhaled.

A police scanner crackled to life—something about a "vehicle pursuit" and "potential federal operation" in Hunts Point. Chiji reached over, snapped it off. "We need another car."

"I know a place," Svetlana said. "But you're not going to like it."

The Mustang roared into the dawn, danger a heartbeat away, secrets piling up like storm clouds. Forty-eight hours shrank and trust fraying.

"Drive south," she said, steadying her breath. "We've got a meet to make."

***
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