Zughaib sat in the worn-out recliner inside the RV, the dim lights flickering in sync with the hum of the generator. His body ached from the day's events, but his mind refused to let him rest. Outside, the night was still and heavy, the silence unsettling. He closed his eyes, hoping for some peace, but his thoughts kept circling back to his brother Zaid, to the red Sprint van, and to the increasingly dangerous jobs he was being roped into.
Just as he began to drift off, a faint sound pulled him back to consciousness. A soft tapping on the RV's window. His eyes snapped open, heart pounding. He grabbed the pistol from the table beside him, its cold weight familiar in his hands. The tapping continued, insistent yet almost rhythmic.
Zughaib moved silently to the door, his muscles tense as he prepared for whatever—or whoever—was outside. He threw open the door and stepped out, gun raised. But there was no one there. The night air was cool against his skin, the barren surroundings of Painsbury illuminated only by the thin slice of moonlight breaking through the clouds.
His eyes scanned the darkness, every nerve on edge, but the only thing he heard was the faint rustle of the wind. He began to lower the pistol, thinking maybe it had been his imagination. But just as he turned to head back inside, his heart froze.
Standing a few feet away, barely visible in the shadows, was Zaid. But something was terribly wrong. Zaid looked disheveled, his clothes ragged and torn, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes vacant. His mouth hung open, as if he was trying to scream but couldn't find the voice.
He took a step forward, but Zaid didn't respond, didn't move. Instead, he tilted his head, his body jerking unnaturally as he took a slow, stuttering step toward Zughaib.
Zughaib's grip on the pistol tightened as Zaid drew closer, his mouth opening wider, his expression twisted into something between pain and madness. Then, suddenly, Zaid let out a horrific screech, the sound inhuman and piercing. Zughaib stumbled back, raising his gun—
---
He woke up with a violent start, gasping for air. The RV was quiet again, the nightmare fading as he rubbed his face, trying to shake off the lingering terror. His hands were trembling, and he could still hear the echo of that awful screech in his ears. He sat there for a few moments, catching his breath. It had felt so real, but he knew it wasn't. It couldn't be.
With a sigh, Zughaib reached for his PDA and sent a memo to the red Sprint van figure. He didn't care what the next job was—anything to distract himself from the nightmare that haunted him. Moments later, the familiar tone of a message lit up his screen. The instructions were brief but clear: Meet at the Corniche.
Zughaib wasted no time. Grabbed the keys to the RV, and headed for the Corniche, the coastal area at the edge of the city where illicit deals and secret rendezvous were commonplace.
---
The drive to the Corniche was quiet and eerie. The road twisted along the shoreline, the ocean stretching out endlessly to one side, and the dark, sprawling city on the other. Zughaib arrived just as the first hints of dawn began to creep over the horizon. The red Sprint van was already there, parked at the far end of the lot, its engine idling softly.
Zughaib parked the RV at a distance and walked toward the van. As he approached, the window slid down, and the same modulated voice greeted him.
"Good to see you, Zughaib," the voice said, dripping with its usual mechanical cheer. "I've got another job for you."
Zughaib didn't respond. He was tired, weary from the endless cycle of danger and deceit, but he nodded, waiting for the details.
"We need you to infiltrate a warehouse at the port," the figure continued. "They're storing counterfeit goods—items that don't need to see the light of day. You'll be taking them off their hands. I've arranged for a box van to be waiting for you. It's parked just over there." The figure gestured to the far corner of the lot where a nondescript white box van was parked, its rear door slightly ajar.
"Take the van, load up as much as you can carry, and bring it back here. Simple enough." The window slid shut, and a key was passed through a small slot.
Zughaib took the key without a word, nodded once, and made his way to the van. The job was straightforward, and after everything that had happened recently, the predictability was almost comforting. He climbed into the driver's seat of the box van, turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life.
---
The port warehouse was a sprawling facility, rows upon rows of shipping containers and steel doors stretching out into the distance. Zughaib parked the van at the far end of the lot, positioning it behind a large stack of crates to keep it hidden. The rear door was left open, ready for a quick getaway.
He moved quickly, sticking to the shadows as he approached the warehouse. The place seemed deserted, save for the occasional hum of machinery and the distant sound of water lapping against the dock. Using a set of lockpicks he kept on hand for moments like this, he jimmied the side door open and slipped inside.
The warehouse was filled with rows of crates, each one stamped with a variety of fake logos—brands that didn't exist, companies that were nothing more than fronts. Zughaib spotted the boxes he was after, their counterfeit labels standing out against the rest. He found a forklift parked nearby, its keys still in the ignition, as if waiting for him. He hotwired it quickly, knowing that speed was key.
The first few trips went smoothly. He loaded the crates into the back of the van, one after another, until the rear compartment was nearly full. But just as he was about to load the last crate, the silence was shattered by the crack of a gunshot. The bullet hit the forklift's rear, sending sparks flying and startling Zughaib.
"Shit!" he cursed under his breath, ducking behind a stack of crates for cover.
Out of the shadows stepped a group of men, dressed in slick white shirts with ties and black slacks—Angel Creeks, a notorious white-collar gang that operated in the city's more upscale criminal circles. Their leader, a tall man with silver hair and a cruel smile, stood at the forefront, a pistol still smoking in his hand.
"Looks like we've got ourselves a little thief," the leader sneered, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You didn't think you could just walk in here and take what's ours, did you?"
Zughaib's eyes darted to the van. He was too far to make a break for it, but if he could create a distraction, maybe—
Another shot rang out, narrowly missing Zughaib's head. "Get him!" the leader barked.
Zughaib moved quickly, knocking over a stack of crates and using the noise as cover to sprint toward the van. The Angel Creek men opened fire, bullets ricocheting off the metal containers as Zughaib leaped into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut.
The box van roared to life, tires screeching as he sped out of the warehouse, but the Angel Creek gang was on him almost instantly. A sleek sports hatch—easily faster and more agile than his cumbersome van—tailed him closely, swerving through the streets as they gave chase.
The van rattled and groaned under the pressure as Zughaib pushed it to its limits, weaving through the narrow streets of the port district. He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching as the hatch gained on him, its headlights blinding.
He took a sharp turn onto a narrow side street, the van's tires skidding against the pavement. The sports hatch followed, but in the chaos, Zughaib managed to pull into a narrow alley, killing the engine just as the hatch sped past him.
He waited, holding his breath, until the sound of the hatch's engine faded into the distance. He had lost them.
---
Back at the Corniche, the red Sprint van was waiting. Zughaib parked the box van and stepped out, his body tense from the near miss. The figure chuckled as the van door opened.
"Outrun by a bunch of suits, were you?" the voice teased. "Don't worry, they're persistent, but they won't find you now."
Zughaib didn't respond. He opened the back of the van, revealing the crates of counterfeits he had managed to steal. The figure nodded approvingly as he commands one of his alias, a fellow wearing anything to cover his identity, from his Sprint van to commandeer the box van.
"Well done, as always." A small envelope of cash was passed through the window. "Consider this your payment. We'll be in touch for the next job."
Without another word, the vans drove off, leaving Zughaib alone once again in the quiet expanse of the Corniche. He pocketed the cash, his mind already in haze of what just happened and whoever those white collar Gang are, as he slowly goes back into his RV.