THE MUSTANG ROARED south through the Bronx, slicing through the early morning haze like a blade through flesh. Crumbling tenements loomed on either side, their windows dark, hollowed-out ghosts of a city that never truly slept. Streetlights flickered, their glow barely cutting through the smog that hung thick over the asphalt.

Chiji's fingers strangled the wheel, knuckles stark white against his dark skin. The Mustang's engine thrummed beneath him, a steady, reassuring pulse against the chaos clawing at his sanity.

The Feds were somewhere behind them, not close enough to see, but close enough to feel, like a breath on the back of his neck.

And then there was Livia—her presence a shadow stretching over everything, waiting for the right moment to drag them into oblivion.

Beside him, Svetlana sat poised, like a panther ready to pounce, gun resting in her lap, her grip loose but sure. Her gaze flicked between the side mirror and the road ahead, her expression unreadable.

"Chop shop, huh?" Chiji's voice was rough, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline. "What's the catch?"

She didn't look at him, only checked her ammo with a quiet click. "South Bronx Crew. Run by a guy named Rico—ex-con, hates cops, owes me a favor."

"Why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming?"

She finally turned to him, one brow arched. "But he's twitchy. Don't piss him off."

Chiji huffed a humorless laugh. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't handle pressure well. At least, not when you're not behind the wheel."

He shot her a look. "And what the hell does that mean?"

She shrugged, but there was something in her eyes—something teasing, taunting. "It's not necessarily a bad thing. You're human, after all."

"Right," he muttered, checking the rearview mirror again. No flashing lights. No black SUVs or sedans. But that didn't mean they weren't coming. The police scanner crackled in the backseat, spitting out fragmented codes and locations. "Pursuit in progress..." The words sent ice down his spine. The noose was tightening.

"What if Livia's crew beats us there?"

Svetlana's lips barely moved. "Then we fight."

Her certainty made his stomach twist. "You say that like it's nothing."

She finally smirked. "Keeps you awake, doesn't it?"

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. Sleep was a luxury he hadn't had in days. Maybe weeks.

The Mustang pulled into a junkyard off East 149th—a graveyard of rusted hulks, tires stacked like tombstones, chain-link fences topped with razor wire. The chop shop squatted at the center: a low-slung garage, shutters down, graffiti bleeding across its walls. A neon Rico's Rides sign flickered, half-dead. Chiji parked behind a gutted van, killing the engine, the crowbar tucked into his belt.

"Stay close," Svetlana said, stepping out, duffel over her shoulder. "Rico's jumpy—likes a show of trust."

Chiji pushed the door open, scanning the yard. "Trust," he muttered, falling into step behind her. "Funny word from you."

Svetlana didn't react. She simply walked ahead.

The garage doors groaned as they lifted.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil, gasoline, and burnt metal. Half-dismantled cars lay scattered like butchered animals, their skeletons stripped of anything valuable. A few men loitered near the back, watching as Svetlana and Chiji stepped inside.

And then there was Rico.

He was built like a bull—thick shoulders, arms tattooed to hell, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His head was shaved, his jaw a mosaic of old scars. He leaned against a steel worktable, wiping grease from his hands, his dark eyes sweeping over them with the kind of wariness that came from a lifetime of betrayal.

"Volkov," Rico drawled.

Svetlana stood perfectly still, a predator masquerading as prey. Her gaze never wavered. "Hey Rico."

Rico looked her up and down, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You look like shit."

"Some people wear their battles," she responded in her signature accent, "Others hide them."

Rico laughed—a sound more like a bark than genuine humor. "Always with the words, Volkov. Always."

"You still owe me,"

The tension in the garage was palpable. Overhead, a single fluorescent light flickered, casting intermittent shadows that seemed to dance with their own dark intentions. Chiji remained silent, every muscle coiled, watching the exchange like a man witnessing a potentially fatal chess match.

Rico exhaled smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. "Debt's a funny thing, sweetheart. Sometimes, people forget why they made the deal in the first place."

"Cute," she replied. "I need a car. Something clean for the Mustang."

His eyes narrowed. "Mustang like that?" A low whistle escaped his lips. "Feds looking for it?"

The lie slipped from Svetlana's lips, smooth as silk. "No."

Rico's laugh was sharp, knowing. "Bullshit."

Silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, charged with unspoken threats. Chiji could feel the electricity, could see the minute movements: Rico's jaw tightening, Svetlana's fingers brushing almost imperceptibly near her weapon.

"Got a Camaro," Rico finally said. "Black, no plates. Fast." His gaze shifted, calculating. "You're lucky I don't sell you out. Word's out—Feds want your ass."

"Word travels fast," Svetlana replied, a hint of dry amusement threading her tone.

Rico's chuckle was dark. "You're a Volkov. You people tend to be... loud enough." His eyes landed on Chiji, who had been statue-still since entering the garage.

"And you are?" Rico asked, challenge implicit in the question.

Before Chiji could respond, Svetlana smoothly intercepted. "This is Stiffy," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye that warned Chiji to play along. "We call him that because he can't seem to keep it in his pants."

She walked past Chiji, subtly mouthing "Don't. Piss. Him. Off." Her warning was clear—survival demanded performance.

Rico's smirk widened, a predator recognizing fellow hunters. He waved them deeper into the garage—a labyrinth of mechanical carnage. Engines hung from chains like industrial meat hooks, blowtorches sparked intermittently, creating a hellish ballet of light and shadow. A half-dozen crew members in grease-stained coveralls watched their interaction, each movement potential threat.

The Camaro gleamed in the corner—sleek, dangerous, a mechanical beast waiting to be unleashed. Svetlana tossed Rico the Mustang keys, her gun hand steady, never truly relaxing.

"Nice car," she acknowledged.

"She's a beast," Rico agreed. But his smile held more—a promise, a threat. "That's a favor on top of the debt I already let sit."

Svetlana's expression remained neutral, but Chiji caught the microscopic shift in her posture—like a predator sensing a trap.

"How much?" she asked.

Rico's smile was a slow, deliberate thing—promising nothing good. "Not money, sweetheart."

Chiji felt the temperature drop. "Then what?"

Rico's eyes locked onto Svetlana, a silent communication passing between them that made Chiji's skin crawl. "A job. One night. You help me move something, we're square."

Her fingers tightened around the duffel bag—their lifeline, their secret, their potential salvation or destruction.

"No," Svetlana said, flat and final.

Rico's laugh was steel wrapped in velvet. "Then no car."

The silence that followed was a living thing. Chiji glanced at Svetlana, reading the war behind her eyes. The Feds were closing in. Livia was circling. Their options were evaporating fast.

"We'll do it," Chiji said, the words out before rational thought could intervene.

Svetlana turned, her expression an unreadable cipher. But something flashed in her eyes—cold, warning, dangerous.

Rico clapped his hands together. "Smart man."

And just like that, they were in deeper than ever before.

He jerked his chin toward the back door. "Hope you like getting your hands dirty, kid."

Chiji clenched his jaw. Something told him this was the beginning of another problem.

"Klyuchi," Svetlana demanded, her Russian cutting through the tension. "Please." The last word hung in the air, more command than courtesy.

Rico hesitated, his weathered hands hovering near the key rack. Before he could respond, the world exploded.

Glass shattered—not a crack, but a violent implosion that sent razor-sharp fragments spinning like deadly confetti. A canister tumbled through the broken window, rolling with ominous purpose before coming to rest against an overturned crate. One heartbeat of silence. Two.

Then—hissssss.

Gray smoke billowed out, a living entity that devoured light and breath. Chiji's lungs seized, the world spinning into a nightmare of gray and suffocation. Around him, Rico's crew dissolved into panic—a symphony of choked coughs and frantic movements.

"Livia!" Svetlana spat, already moving. Her Glock was in her hand, face twisted with something close to fury. "Not Feds—her cleaners!"

Figures burst through the haze—four of them, black-clad, faces obscured by balaclavas. They moved like wolves, precise and fast. Then— t-t-t-t-t-t! Submachine guns spat fire, bullets shredding the walls. Wood splintered, neon signs flickered, the air thick with cordite.

Chiji dove behind a workbench, instinct kicking in, dragging Svetlana down with him as rounds chewed through metal inches from their heads. Rico wasn't as lucky.

The old mechanic roared—a sound of pure defiance—swinging his wrench with brutal precision. It connected with a cleaner's skull, a sickening crack that momentarily broke through the gunfire. But defiance had its price. A burst of bullets stitched through Rico's chest, blood blooming like a grotesque flower across his shirt.

"Fuck!" Chiji coughed, gripping a crowbar with white-knuckled desperation. His heartbeat hammered in his throat. "Plan?"

Svetlana's laugh was razor-sharp. "Oh, isn't that convenient? Asking for a plan now?"

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? We needed the car—"

"I had it under control!" Her voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"Svetlana!" Chiji's shout was part frustration, part warning. "Pressing issues!"

She rolled her eyes—a gesture that somehow conveyed both exasperation and deadly focus. Two shots rang out, clean and precise. One cleaner's throat exploded in a mist of red, the body collapsing.

Three left.

Her gun pointed at Chiji, but there was something else in her eyes. Not just anger. Something deeper. "Next time, show an interest before shit hits the fan."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, the words a mix of submission and something else. Respect? Challenge? The line blurred.

She rolled out, a blur of leather and fury, and Chiji followed—his brain shutting out the fear, survival taking over.

A cleaner swung toward him, gun barking—he ducked, pivoted, and swung the crowbar low. It connected with a sickening crunch. The man's knee caved inward, a scream tearing from his throat as he dropped. Chiji didn't hesitate. He brought the crowbar down, hard, against his skull. Wet. Final.

Two left.

Svetlana had her blade out now, fast, brutal, efficient. She blocked a strike, twisted, and drove the knife into the second cleaner's gut. He gasped, eyes wide in disbelief as she twisted the handle.

Chiji barely had time to process before the last cleaner turned, gun blazing. Pop-pop-pop. Bullets ricocheted, one slicing across Chiji's upper arm. Hot pain flared.

Svetlana tackled the gunman before he could fire again, slamming his head into a car hood—once, twice, thrice. Blood smeared across the rusted metal before he slumped, lifeless.

The smoke still hung thick, mingling with the groans of the dying. Rico's crew was decimated—Rico himself lay still, his blood pooling into the cracks of the concrete.

Chiji pressed a hand against his wound, breath ragged. "Livia's too fast."

"Too fast," Svetlana growled, wiping her blade clean on the dead man's jacket. "She knew—someone's talking." Her eyes flashed, sharp, predatory. "We have a rat."

Chiji didn't get the chance to process that before she was moving, grabbing the duffel stuffed with the ledger and cash. Her gaze flicked to the Camaro—Rico's last gift. "Move!"

He didn't argue.

They sprinted. Chiji's arm screamed with pain, but adrenaline drowned it out. He slid into the driver's seat, heart hammering, Svetlana beside him. The Camaro roared awake, tires screeching as he floored it.

Then— headlights flared.

A second car tore through the junkyard's gate, barreling toward them. Backup. Livia's reinforcements.

Svetlana cursed. "Fucking hell."

A gunman leaned out of the passenger window, rifle aimed.

"Hold on!" Chiji barked.

He downshifted, weaving through car husks. Metal shrieked as the Camaro scraped past a wreck, sparks flying.

Svetlana popped out the window—her Glock barking. Crack. Crack. A shot pinged off the pursuer's hood, but they kept coming.

"Faster!" she yelled, reloading mid-chase, her hair whipping around her face.

Chiji flashed a feral grin. Lekki-Epe expressway, back home. Outrunning cops in stolen rides. This? This was familiar.

"You asked for it," he muttered.

He jerked the wheel, cutting through a tight gap between wrecked sedans. The Camaro fishtailed, but he held it. The pursuers weren't so lucky—one clipped a stack of tires, spun out, and crashed into a rusted bus with a thunderous crunch.

"Gone." Svetlana exhaled, gun smoking. "For now."

Chiji kept his foot on the gas, blood dripping down his arm. The chop shop blurred into the rearview, fading into the night.

Silence stretched between them—a living thing, sharp as a knife's edge. Taut. Electric. The kind of quiet that precedes an explosion.

Chiji's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, each tap a question mark. "Livia's crew," he said finally, voice low and dangerous. "How'd they find us?"

Svetlana didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just existed as a coiled spring of potential violence. "Traitor," she said, the word falling like a stone. Her jaw clenched—a tell she'd normally never allow. "Pavel, maybe." A beat. "Or someone closer."

Her gaze slid to him. Not accusatory. Not defensive. Just... assessing. A predator weighing potential threats.

Then away.

Trust was a luxury they couldn't afford. And it was fraying—thread by fragile thread.

Chiji forced a laugh—dark, bitter. The sound of a man who'd seen too much, trusted too little. "This is bad."

"Yeah." One word. Loaded with everything unsaid.

His fingers tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white. "The Feds are still out there. Your 'collateral' bullshit is burning us both."

Svetlana's hand instinctively tightened on the duffel bag—the ledger inside worth more than both their lives combined. "Everyone wants a piece," she said flatly. "Livia sees cash. The Feds see a takedown. We're caught in the middle."

"Caught?" The laugh that escaped him was pure razor wire. "We're bait, Svetlana. Your mysterious buyer better be worth dragging us through this hell."

Something changed in that moment. A flicker of something—doubt? Fear?—passed across her face. So quick. So brief. Most would have missed it.

Chiji didn't.

"He is," she said. Definitive. Absolute.

But the crack was there. Microscopic. But present.

"Southwest," she ordered. No room for discussion. "We've got a meet."

He didn't respond. Just floored the gas. The Camaro's engine roared—a beast unleashed. The Bronx blurred past like a fever dream.

Forty-eight hours.

Livia hunting them.
The Feds closing in.
A traitor in their midst.

The noose was tightening.

And Chijioke Eneh wasn't sure who'd survive. Or if anyone would.

***
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