The table was cluttered with blueprints, hastily scrawled notes, and surveillance photos as Orwen leaned over it, his sharp eyes scanning the details of their plan. Zughaib sat across from him, arms folded, his gaze shifting between the blueprints and Orwen's cold, calculating face. The two suitmen, who flanked Orwen, were silent as ever, their expressions hidden behind ski masks. The tension in the room was palpable, a slow boil of anxiety and anticipation.
Orwen's voice cut through the silence, authoritative and measured. "We've received intel from our BIF undercover agents," he began, tapping one of the photos on the table, a grainy shot of a bustling mall entrance. "A group we've been tracking for months is set to meet tomorrow at the International Mall in Downtown. The mall itself is a front, but deep in the basement, there's an organized flea market selling counterfeit goods, fake IDs, weapons—everything you can think of."
Zughaib nodded slightly, absorbing the information. He knew the kind of operations Orwen was describing—shadowy networks operating beneath the surface of the city, hidden in plain sight.
Orwen continued, "The group we're after will be meeting with some of the vendors there, likely discussing their next big move. We need to get a positive ID on them, but we can't afford to spook them." He leaned in closer, his eyes locking onto Zughaib's. "That's where you come in."
Zughaib raised an eyebrow.
Orwen shook his head, a thin smile crossing his lips. "You'll go in wearing a disguise. We've set you up as a regular at the flea market—one of the quirky English types that fit in with the crowd. You're there to blend in, watch, and snap photos of the group's faces. We need clear shots for identification. Meanwhile, my men," he gestured to the two suitmen beside him, "will follow the group from a distance. Once they leave, we'll trail them back to their base of operations."
Zughaib frowned slightly by the impending task.
Orwen pulled out another photograph and slid it across the table. It was a close-up of a black van with a red sigil on the bumper. "They'll arrive in this van. When you see it parked outside the mall, you'll know it's time. The driver is likely the one in charge, but don't get too close. Just do your job and keep your head down."
Zughaib exhaled quietly, knowing the risks involved but also understanding that this was just another step in the tangled web he was now part of. Orwen gave a nod to the suitmen, and the meeting ended with little ceremony.
---
The next morning, Zughaib donned his costume—a mix of loud patterns and eccentric accessories that transformed him into a funky Englishman. His hair was slicked back, and a pair of round glasses completed the look. He didn't recognize himself in the mirror, which was the point. As he prepared to leave, he shoved a small camera into his jacket pocket, making sure it was ready for the task ahead.
He took the metro link to Downtown, the steady hum of the train beneath his feet grounding him as he stared out of the window. The International Mall was a sprawling complex of high-end stores, tourist traps, and hidden passageways, but the real action was underground. As Zughaib arrived and stepped off the metro, the mall's glass façade loomed over him, a glittering beacon of consumerism hiding the darker operations below.
Zughaib kept his pace casual as he entered the mall, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of the group. He walked through the crowded halls, past stores selling designer clothes and overpriced gadgets, before finally heading toward the basement entrance to the arcade. Two thugs stood guard at the stairwell which lead to a different room with an 'Employess only' sign on the door, their eyes cold and watchful.
Without missing a beat, Zughaib approached them and gave the prearranged code: "A fine day for a flea." on a piece of paper in fine cursive.
The thugs exchanged a glance before stepping aside, letting him pass into the hidden underworld of the flea market.
---
The flea market was a stark contrast to the polished luxury of the mall above. It was dimly lit, with makeshift stalls selling everything from knockoff designer bags to illegal firearms. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and desperation. Zughaib moved through the narrow aisles, keeping a low profile as he casually examined the goods on display. His eyes flicked around, searching for any sign of the group.
By noon, the market was bustling, the crowd swelling as vendors called out to potential buyers. Zughaib leaned against a pillar, pretending to browse a stall selling counterfeit watches. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw them—a group of figures moving through the crowd, their leader a hooded figure whose face was obscured by the shadows of the dim lights.
Zughaib's pulse quickened, but he forced himself to stay calm. He waited, watching as the group made their way to one of the back stalls, where a vendor was waiting for them. His camera was ready, tucked discreetly into his jacket, and as the group began speaking with the vendor, Zughaib moved carefully to position himself for a clear shot.
Just as the hooded figure turned slightly, Zughaib's breath caught in his throat. The person they were meeting with wasn't just any vendor—it was Alzees, Zaid's friend from the flea market. He was laughing, clearly in good spirits as he shook hands with the hooded figure.
Zughaib clenched his jaw, snapping a few quick photos from a distance, making sure to capture the faces of both the group and Alzees. He couldn't afford to let personal connections cloud his judgment now. The group didn't seem to notice him, too engrossed in their conversation with Alzees.
After a few minutes, the exchange ended, and the group turned to leave. Zughaib followed them from a distance, his heart pounding as they made their way back to the entrance of the mall. The black van with the red sigil was parked in the lot, just as Orwen had said. The group climbed into the van, and the driver—a man with dark sunglasses—started the engine.
Zughaib hung back, watching as the van pulled out of the lot. But just as they left, a sleek black coupe pulled out from a nearby parking space, tailing the van closely.
---
After the van had disappeared from sight, Zughaib turned back toward the flea market, still trying to process what he had just seen. He made his way to Alzees' stall, where the man was cheerfully packing up his goods, oblivious to the world around him.
Removing his disguise, Zughaib approached behind Alzees.
Alzees turned, his face lighting up when he saw Zughaib. "Hey, man! Fancy seeing you here. What's going on?"
Zughaib's expression remained neutral, though his mind was racing.
Alzees shrugged, still smiling. "You know how it is. Business is business. You should swing by more often, we've got some good stuff coming in."
From Zughaib's stare, it wiped the grin from Alzees' face. His smile faltered, and for the first time, he looked uneasy. "I don't know what you're looking for man. Those 'guys' Just some customers, that's all."
Before Alzees could say anything more, Zughaib gently put him to sleep.
Alzees struggled, his voice panicked. "Wait—what's going on? Zughaib, what the hell, man?"
Zughaib met his eyes, but there was no sympathy in his gaze.
As Alzees was led away, Zughaib stood in the middle of the chaotic flea market, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The van was gone, the coupe had followed, and now Alzees was subdued. Everything was moving too fast, and Zughaib could feel the storm brewing on the horizon.
He just wasn't sure if he would survive it.