Deals with the Devil

The city was already stirring—dawn like a bruise above the rooftops—when Lena made the call. Private number. She let it ring three times, thumb sweating against the curve of her burner. The reply was quick, voice flat as tire iron.

“Voss. You get my message?”

“You want a meet or you want leverage?”

The informant—codename Mouse, one of Skinny Pete’s more desperate competitors—chuckled, pure static. “Both. Come alone. Dock Nine. Don’t bring your partner or I ghost.”

---

The warehouse was a lopsided hulk pressed against the river, broken windows haloed by vaporlight. Lena slipped through the side door, stifling a cough at the ammonia stink of rotted fish and wet timber. Her shoes hissed on the slick floor as she advanced, periphery on high alert. She carried herself like she had business—one hand loose at her hip, jacket open to show she wasn’t hiding anything obvious.

“Mouse?” Her whisper barely echoed.

A shape peeled from the shadows—a man thin enough to disappear behind a pillar, nose bandaged, mouth stitched tight from years of bad deals. Mouse gave her a slim, nervous grin. He gestured at a shattered office desk between oily puddles.

“I did Pete favors. He paid well, didn’t rat. But he got sloppy. Pulled too much heat.” Mouse’s eyes flicked, checking the shadows like bad memories hunted him.

“People get killed all the time for less.” Lena folded her arms. “Why reach out to me?”

Mouse shuffled, leaning in conspiratorially. “Pete was scared. Not of Torres—of bigger sharks. He had something, Voss. Said he was ready to talk for immunity—real names, not just yours truly. Big players. Bosses. Even badges.”

“You mean he wanted to testify?” Lena’s pulse tightened, memories surfacing of cases gone sideways, hidden by blue walls.

“Supposed to spill this week. That’s why Torres came down himself. To shut it. Pete had proof—hard disks and some flash drive. Kept in case things went nuclear. You want it?” Mouse’s grin seemed to fade.

Lena weighed her distrust. “What’s your price?”

Mouse looked over his shoulder, the dawn now silver through the shattered panes. “I give you a location for a taste of what’s on the drive. I walk, I get safe passage out. No busts. Ever.”

She gritted her teeth. Deals with the devil were why the city rotted, but not dealing meant more victims, more bodies like Pete.

“Deal. But you cross me...”

Mouse waved, offended. “I know your rep. Meet your friend before the sun’s up. Warehouse B, Lockup lane, south side. Tell no one. And Voss—be ready. They know about you.”

Mouse was gone in a blink, coat fluttering ghost-like through the gaps in the wall.

---

The precinct parking lot steamed in the morning heat as Lena stepped from her battered sedan, heart pounding with the residue of Mouse’s warning. She hugged her jacket tighter. A delivery van sat idling by the fence, windshield misted blue. She scanned the lot—empty but for Ray, leaning against the trunk of an unmarked car fifty yards off.

Something was off. Ray’s shoulders were hunched, face half-turned from the main doors. Lena watched as a figure approached—broad-shouldered, camo jacket, unmistakable scar across cheek. Renny Mendez, ex-fixer for Malik Torres.

Ray nodded, looking every direction. Renny handed him an envelope, thick with cash. Ray handed back a small black pouch. Words were brief, tight. Renny peeled off first, fading behind the chain-link gate. Ray pocketed the envelope without a look.

Lena kept her face impassive when Ray caught her eye. He offered the same tired smile from Mercy Street—masking something heavy, or lost.

“Long shift. You alright?” he asked, stepping closer.

She wanted to press him, ask whose side he played for, what ghosts lived in that envelope. But the violence on his hunched posture screamed: Not here. Not yet.

“Fine,” she said, lying for both their sakes. “Busy night.”

He shrugged. “Let’s catch up inside. Got a few tips from Jarvis—"

A scream of tires cut him off. The van by the fence gunned forward, barreling down on Lena. She dove sideways, landing hard on the blacktop as glass shattered—the windshield sprayed with shotgun pellets from a passenger hanging out the side. Ray pulled his Glock in one motion, firing twice at the retreating taillights. The van scraped the chainlink, twisted sideways, and tore away down an alley, plates mud-caked and unreadable.

Sirens split the morning. Lena’s ears rang, hands numb. Ray knelt beside her, wild-eyed. “You hit?”

She shook her head, razor-thin. “Just rattled.”

Uniforms exploded from the doors, but the van was gone. Ray helped her to her feet, blood trickling from a cut beneath her eye.

No words passed. They both saw it—the warning. Next time, it wouldn’t be missed.

---

Inside, the precinct was noise and chaos—a swarm of rumors, wild speculation over who would target a cop in daylight. Chief Mercer’s voice rose above the din, her expression a coin-toss between fear and fury.

Lena wiped the blood from her cheek and slipped out of Mercer’s sweep, making for the evidence lockup. Mouse’s directions played in her mind: Warehouse B, Lockup lane. It wasn’t far. She moved quick, ghosting past the bullpen, into the back halls lined with battered lockers and sulfur light.

At the far end, hidden behind crates marked ‘confiscated,’ Lena spotted a narrow door pried open, padlock busted and dangling. She slipped inside—an old storeroom, walls ringed with abandoned file boxes and outdated gear.

Her nerves screamed. She sensed movement—someone else had been here. On the desk, half-buried under paperweights, a brown envelope. Inside, a cheap plastic flash drive, its label marked in ballpoint: “PETE 3A.”

A note fell out as well. ‘Use outside. Never precinct. Trust no one.’

She ducked out, heart pounding, palming the drive. Somewhere between the van’s blast and Mouse’s warning, she’d crossed a new line. The safety that clung, thin and useless, was gone. Now she carried proof—whatever it held—of what had gotten Pete killed, and maybe everyone else connected.

She texted Mouse quickly. “I have it. You get your run.”

His reply was instant: “Keep your head down. They’ll come for anyone. Even you.”

Lena stepped out into the blinding white morning, sun cresting silver over the rooftops. For the first time, she felt exposed—like every bullet in the city was written with her name, and Ray’s trust, if it survived at all, was hanging by a fraying thread. The flash drive’s weight in her pocket felt like an anchor, dragging her deeper into the city’s undertow. She pressed inside her coat as squad cars screamed past—out of Mercy Street, into the war that lived just below the city’s calm skin.