Power created opportunities for success. Control maintained that success. Yet to acquire some level of power for Zayn to better his life, he worked as what couldn't be called anything other than a drug distributor. A liaison when he wanted to sound professional, a delivery driver when questioned by police.

That night, though, Zayn would oversee a delivery then attend the death anniversary of his mother. A beautiful combination. His mother would be proud. He stood on the roof of an empty building in the outskirts of the city surrounded by dirt trails. To his East, by three tall trees alongside the dirt trail, were lit candles. Someone else had died in that place on the same day as his mother, so family and friends left the candles as a reminder of that person's life. Every year. Without fail.

What it reminded Zayn, though, didn't bring him peace. Death had never left Zayn alone, from the moment of his complicated birth to his family and friends who died each year. At some point in his life, instead of stealing money or medicine to save the people he cherished, he prayed and hoped he wouldn't be the last one standing as the years passed. It didn't seem like his prayers had been heard.

Zayn paced the roof of the empty four-story brick building under the early night sky. He stood at five foot ten wearing a black suit, had his black straight hair raised and styled, slightly tanned from the Mediterranean summer swimming, kept his beard trimmed short and had his parents' dark brown eyes. At night, they appeared as two black holes, something he never understood. With the crescent moon glistening above along with the what seemed to be endless dirt, trees in the distance and the freeway ramps miles away, Zayn inhaled and absorbed the view.

Below on the dirt road, one white Mercedes Benz sedan drove across the pebbles to the already parked black Audi SUV in the middle of the street. Zayn noted the meeting point and assumed the white Mercedes had the customers who would be purchasing the product.

He reached into his pocket for his phone and opened up his notepad application. He tapped the notes titled Father's Cancer Surgery: six thousand dollars saved of ten-thousand dollars for medicine costs. He checked the second notes file he tilted, College Savings for Imane: fifteen hundred dollars total saved. Zayn's routine included reminding himself why he worked the dangerous job he did. That reminder had always kept him focused on the end goal. No matter the shootings or deaths or arrests that resulted from his distributions.

His phone rang. He answered.

"We're ready. They're here at the pick-up spot," Soraya said, one of Zayn's two group members. She whistled. In the distance, Zayn glanced at the Audi SUV parked in the middle of the streets as it flashed its headlights. "C'est eux. Let's get it."

He kept a close look at the dirt pathway the white Mercedes came from. When he didn't see any other car tailing, he left the roof of the building and made his way to the first floor. "I'll be watching from the sidelines. Don't talk too much. Drop and go. Remember, we've never dealt with these people."

"Tell me again why our contact gave our info to this new group we've never even heard of," Soraya said.

"Risking ourselves for this new deal on your birthday. We should be chilling and eating cake right now. N'êtes-vous pas d'accord. I'm not in fight mode," Volkan said. "Happy birthday by the way, habibi. It's not midnight yet."

"Thank you," Zayn replied, as he pressed his cellphone into his ear midway down the inside staircase of the building.

"You're hella late." Soraya clicked her tongue. "You been up all day and now is when you say happy birthday?"

"I was asleep." Volkan cleared his throat. "Still am, really."

"I'm going to the back exit of the building and coming up behind them to watch. Keep the microphone on." Zayn jogged through the first floor door into the empty white hallway of the building then found his path to the back exit.

After unlocking the pins of the back door, Zayn stepped outside into the November night of Algeria, with a hint of the salty Mediterranean Sea and a sky swarmed with luminous stars. Believe it or not, that starry night was the exact night for the death anniversaries of Zayn's mother. Year after year after year. Never on a rainy day. Never on a hot day. He had always found it a blessing that every year, on the same night, the stars would never fail to shine their light on him and his mourning.

The drug deal took place in the city of Blida. Blida, called the city of flowers, possessed magnificent nature which flourished in the area in Spring and Summer, with mountain trails open from snow closure, the Mediterranean Sea an hour drive away, the Sahara desert down south, and pink, yellow, purple and blue flowers. The flowers had been awarded the best by the country, resulting in orders from all across from families, companies and government officials.

Zayn lived one hour away from Blida, in the capital of Algiers.

Lived safely at home, conducted business outside it.

Zayn stood by the edge of the building he exited from in case he needed to hide. Three people stepped out of the white Mercedes sedan parked across the dirt road. The dark of the night made it difficult for Zayn to identify anyone. The customers wore jeans and hoodies covering their heads, with the high beams of their Mercedes active behind them. Zayn wondered if Soraya and Volkan could see with the high beams blinding them.

"Thanks," Volkan said, as someone in the Mercedes switched the beams of light to regular.

"Which one of you is Zayn?" one of the black-hooded men asked. Zayn listened in through the ear piece he had which connected to Volkan's microphone.

"Why does that matter? Volkan asked. "You pay then take the product. If you like it, we'll see you again." Volkan raised his hand to reveal a medium-sized gray pouch. He shook it in front of the customers. "Make sense?"

A rolling wheel sound caught Zayn's attention. He turned behind him and saw an old woman wearing a dark red patterned robe, with short brown hair, and a wrinkled forehead, pushing a four wheel cart of tea, peanuts, almonds, cashews and baklava. The noise wasn't loud enough to expose Zayn but it was loud enough to cover up the conversation happening in the drug sale.

"Stop pushing, please." Zayn waved at the old woman. "Why're you even here again? There's no customers."

"Tea and almonds on this blessed and starry night?"

"No, thank you."

"What's a young man like yourself doing out here dressed in a suit?" the tea-seller asked.

"Listen. You're like a grandma to me," Zayn pleaded, bringing all of his fingers on his right hand together and motioning, "it's dangerous here. You have to turn around and go." Zayn pointed back towards the city lights in the distance. "How do you even know that I'll be here every time I come?"

"Just buy one tea from me, as you always do." The woman smiled and had black eyebrows and the same kind of pitch black eyes.

Zayn reached into his pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill. He handed it over. "Here. Now go, please. For your own good."

In the meantime, Volkan handed the bag of drugs to the buyers, who had inspected the product before tossing a box of money over to him. Zayn was glued to the drug transfer and ignored the woman and her consistently delicious green tea, though it wasn't the time for it. "Watch for any weapons," he whispered, relaxing his shoulders as he exhaled.

"Here you go." The woman handed over a small paper cup of tea along with a pouch of almonds and cashews. Zayn glanced at the tea, considered not taking it but didn't want to offend the woman who worked for her own salary, her own bread and water, and maybe her family, too. So he took the cup of tea and almonds, nodding his thanks. "Soon your desires shall become reality," the old woman's voice deepened, and within seconds, her body and her wooden cart faded into the darkness of the night. "Power ultimately begets death . . ."

Zayn continued to stare at where the woman once stood, baffled at her disappearance, scanning the desert-like area and even opening the backdoor of the building he came from in case what had just happened was a trick or a hallucination due to lack of sleep.

"We got the money. We're leaving," Soraya whispered into the microphone.

Zayn didn't have time to wonder where the old woman vanished. He turned and watched the three customers face their cars and stroll away.

The one in the center paused and glanced back at Soraya and Volkan. "Tell Zayn someone who knows him is after him. Someone came to our boss and offered five thousand to set you up."

"What?! You piece of—" Volkan shouted.

Zayn's heart raced, and his first response was to scan the area for police cars or sirens in the distance, any kind of light that would alert him of a set up.

"Relax, we wouldn't accept that from a random, especially while risking ourselves. Plus, we heard good things about Zayn. Maybe we'll deal in the future." The man in the center of the three dealers continued his walk back to the Mercedes they came from.

But Zayn didn't feel comfortable anymore. He'd never dealt with a transfer where the people picking up the product were so talkative, so Zayn came out of the shadows, quite literally, and speed-walked across the dark dirt road towards the Mercedes. He flashed his phone's camera light three times to his friends. Then he pulled out his black nine millimeter pistol tucked into his suit's pants, behind his back, and waited until he stepped in range to shoot but far enough to blend into the night with his suit.

The customers closed the door of their Mercedes, flashed their lights, then slammed their gas pedal, creating crackles and pops from their exhaust. Within seconds, sirens blasted in the distance. Red and blue lights flashed atop police cars and motorcycles from the pathway where the Mercedes came from.

"Get in the car. Pick me up now," Zayn ordered.

"They were the ones setting us up!" Volkan shouted. "I'll kill those snakes!"

Volkan ran to the SUV, started the car, then accelerated as Soraya closed her door.

The buyers in the Mercedes shouted words which mixed together, perhaps slurs, but one thing Zayn knew was that the incoming cops had to arrest someone that night. And it wouldn't be Zayn or his friends. As the Mercedes accelerated past Zayn about fifteen feet away, he continued his light breathing and maintained focus on the driver's side tires. He fired at their two tires in the dead of night and popped the air of one tire. The Mercedes drifted and swung out of control until it stopped.

Volkan hit the brakes of the SUV as he approached Zayn, creating a storm of dirt and pebbles in the air and on the ground. "You're carrying?! Since when?!" Volkan asked, with his rolled down window.

"Just today." Malik opened the back seat of the SUV then leaped in. "Get to the city. They might not chase us."

The dust storm helped hide their SUV's headlights in the blackness of the night.

But expectations quickly turned to a grim reality when headlights flashed in the rear along with red and blue lights in chase. Volkan cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the car transitioned into a highway road connecting the outskirts of the city to the main parts.

"They're gaining on us!" Soraya yelled.

Zayn knew there was less than five minutes of driving before they officially entered Blida's central part of the city and could maneuver their escape. He counted two police motorcycles in pursuit, imagined their radio calls requesting backup and knew they couldn't make any mistakes in losing their pursuers.

Ahead, the dim city of Blida was spacious yet crowded in certain neighborhoods. Roads were wide and long, while street lights managed the traffic everywhere and buses operated until 8PM. Red, blue and green lights flashed off of damaged apartment complexes, shops, company buildings and parked cars along cracked sidewalks. The rush and flashing lights reminded Zayn of the night market in the city.

"Take the exit ramp coming up into the city," Zayn ordered.

"We could keep going to the third ramp and lose them at the four-way intersection," Soraya added.

"We won't lose them in the city. They've probably already radioed everyone they're on a chase." Zayn glanced back at both police bikes in the distance. "They know we're entering the city. So instead of us trying to lose them, we'll let the city handle that."

"Just call the military to get us a chopper," Volkan said, grinning in the dim SUV driver's seat in front of Zayn. He tapped the breaks of the SUV to lessen their speed as he drove onto the first exit ramp.

Street lights appeared left and right as the freeway ramp behind faded, and the city's famous statue appeared, Pedals of life—of a woman holding a flower with blown away pedals—glowed in the darkness of the night from implanted red, green and blue beams of light in the ground, highlighting the statue. She and many others like her had fought in the war against France's colonialism of Algeria. And won.

Zayn and crew would soon begin their run from the police.

"Sharp left at the Pedals of Life." The car swerved. Zayn held himself by pushing against Volkan's driver seat. Closed shops, tall gated apartment buildings, and cracked roads with a few pot holes laid ahead of Zayn and his team as they accelerated through the empty neighborhood.

"Is that a market?" Soraya asked.

Across the street, more police lights illuminated the night market. The night market had sellers under large tents which sold robes for both men and women in varying colors of red, black, light brown, and white, along with hats, mule shoes designed with stars and Arabian style patterns, as well as jewelry of silver and gold necklaces, rings, earrings and bracelets. Under each tent gathered a group between three and five customers, and the streets would at times fill with people if everyone stepped out of the tents at the same time.

Zayn hoped that rare occurrence wouldn't happen that night.

Sirens then rang through the streets and echoed as the police closed in on their two motorcycles. Volkan slammed on the gas pedal, engine roaring through the lively street. People in their apartments turned on the lights of their rooms and peeked through their windows to watch the chase. Some started filming the chase with their phones.

"Pop their tires again," Volkan suggested. "They're on bikes. They'll catch us."

"No," Zayn rejected the idea. "We're here to make money. We're not criminals."

"Pretty sure drug delivering makes us criminals," Soraya added, her right hand tight around her seatbelt strap against her chest.

"Not for me." Zayn snapped his fingers. "Straight through the night market. Don't hit anyone."

"Through the market?!" Volkan slammed his palm on the steering wheel. "Any more requests to make this impossible?! Maybe stop and recruit one of these people into our group?!"

As Volkan got over the order to speed through the busy streets, something pulled Zayn's attention, as a magnet would, for an unknown reason. He squinted to see the darkness at the end of the street ahead. Nothing. Yet it felt like something was there, and a cold and eerie feeling set in on his confidence to escape that night.

He could've sworn he saw an old woman standing with a pushable cart in the darkness.

Gunshots fired at their SUV from the rear. Volkan ducked while keeping the steering wheel straight and so did Soraya. Luckily no bullet cracked the windshield. Volkan kept the car horn blaring as a warning to all the shoppers in the market.

"This is where you wanted us to go, Zayn?!" Soraya shouted.

Volkan followed with, "These people are going to get hit!"

Unaware of his friends, Zayn had been obsessively staring ahead at the end of the street, past all the people running around and swinging their arms, past the people shouting at them, past the people cursing at them and past the people throwing vegetables and fruits at their SUV.

Volkan rolled down his window. "Sorry! Move! Sorry! Move!"

A voice played which no one heard but Zayn. Cold enough to chill him. A whisper, yet . . . clear enough for him to hear each commanding word. "The end of the market is your safety. Stray from what I say and your friends will suffer your mistake, young Zayn."

"Make sure you get to the end of the market," Zayn spoke.

"Are you crazy?! They're firing—"

"No, they stopped!" Soraya interrupted. She peaked behind her seat through the rear glass. "They won't shoot with so many people in the market. Go!"

Annoyed at the orders directed at him, Volkan bit his lip and continued driving through the tight road, sometimes hitting boxes of fruit on the side of the road or stacks of shoes for sale. Someone threw a tomato which hit the windshield and splattered red juice. The windshield wiper blades tried to clear it off, but the SUV collided with the trunk of a crossing black BMW sedan. The BMW swung in a half circle as Volkan slammed on the brake pedal.

"You guys okay?! Soraya?! Zayn?!"

"Drive!" Soraya yelled. "They're still on us, Volkan!"

The BMW's driver door opened and a young man in a long white shirt and jeans stepped out with a bowie knife. "You hit my car! Ay!"

Volkan laughed at the events unfolding in front of him. He didn't have time to fight someone with a knife. He accelerated and watched the now four police motorcycles in his rear view mirror close the gap between them. The neighborhood was engulfed in blue and red lights. Additional law enforcement arrived. "Okay, now what, Zayn?!"

"The food truck," Zayn answered. He pointed at one red and white food truck at the end of the street, parked in the middle of the empty intersection, on the right side. "Drive past it."

"What the hell is that going to do? You trapped us, Zayn!" Volkan punched his steering wheel. "We're getting arrested tonight! Hope you all like mashed potatoes!"

"The gang will take care of the police." Zayn placed a hand on Volkan's right shoulder. "I told you; we're not criminals. We're getting out of this without shooting them."

So, Volkan nodded at Zayn after a quick glance into his eyes. He drove right through the gap of people by the food truck, most of them holding guns, knives, or both. Volkan then stopped the car and leaned out of his window to watch what was happening. The gap by the food truck filled by the people who carried weapons pacing back and forth. More gun shots followed. The police sirens stopped. Silence followed as all four motorcycles with flashing red and blue lights stopped at the edge of the market but not in the intersection.

"Go," Zayn said, also leaned out of his window. "It's not our problem anymore."

"How'd you find out about this area? The gang here has problems with the cops?" Volkan asked.

"Rule three." Zayn raised three fingers while Soraya and Volkan watched him lean back into the car. "Always know the area you'll be doing business in."

"You and your rules." Volkan fell back into his driver seat. "Just text them to us."

"Get us out of here first. We need to switch cars." Zayn leaned in his seat and glanced through his rolled up window to his left and remembered his mother's death anniversary that night and his little sister who waited for him.

Getting arrested or dying was not an option. No matter how much money he needed, Zayn kept that rule in his head at all times, a strict reminder that one careless mistake would separate him from his sister. From his closest friends. Maybe forever. The job was done that night, with another thousand hundred dollars added to his savings after splitting it with his team.

Yet that satisfactory feeling didn't calm Zayn after the successful deal that night. Instead, as they drove through the freeway in the blackness of the night, he remembered the old woman who had vanished in front of his eyes and the voice in his head which advised him where to go.