The rain fell in steady sheets, drenching the narrow alleyway where Zughaib crouched, hidden in the shadows. The night was heavy with tension, the sound of droplets striking the pavement mingling with the distant hum of the city. Zughaib had been on the run since the firefight with Orwen's men and the Angel Creek gang. Now, soaked to the bone, he leaned against the cold, wet bricks, trying to catch his breath. His thoughts raced. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, but nothing made sense—not yet.
His PDA, still flickering with broken pixels from the bullet that had grazed it earlier, vibrated weakly in his pocket. Zughaib pulled it out, glanced at the shattered screen, and sighed. He couldn't trust it anymore. The messages from Leandra, the tracking system—it was all compromised. He gritted his teeth and smashed the PDA against the wall, watching as the pieces scattered across the ground. He bent down, pulling the storage unit from the wreckage. It would be the only piece of tech he kept for now.
Just as he was about to move, a bum staggered out from behind a nearby dumpster, his eyes wild with desperation. The man's hand flashed forward, trying to grab at Zughaib's jacket, clearly aiming for a quick mugging.
"Hand over the cash, man. I need it," the bum snarled, his voice shaky and weak.
Zughaib didn't hesitate. He spun around, grabbing the bum by the throat and pulling him into a quick, efficient chokehold. The man's struggles were brief, his body going limp as Zughaib dragged him behind the dumpster and shoved him inside, leaving him unconscious among the garbage. The bum's ragged hoodie was left behind, and without thinking twice, Zughaib slipped it on, the oversized garment hanging loose on his frame.
Blending in was his only option now.
---
The rain had let up slightly as Zughaib made his way to a payphone at the corner of the street. He slipped a handful of nickels into the slot, his fingers trembling from the cold and fatigue. The phone rang twice before a familiar voice—the silhouette from the Sprinter van—answered on the third call.
"Well, well, well," the modulated voice chuckled through the receiver, dripping with sarcastic amusement. "Zughaib, you sound like you've had a rough night. Must be hell out there for you."
Zughaib remained silent, his breath steady as he gripped the receiver tighter.
The silhouette didn't wait for a response, the voice continuing, "Listen, Alzeez—you remember him, right? That weasel from the flea market? He needs some favors. Seems like your kind of job."
Zughaib sighed deeply, the weight of everything pressing down on him. But he had no choice. He needed to keep moving, keep working, if only to stay ahead of the people chasing him. Without a word, he smashed the phone, breaking it to pieces and collecting the loose change that spilled out. The world had become transactional for him—every action, every move, was a barter for survival.
---
The flea market was as crowded and chaotic as always, the air thick with the smell of cheap street food, sweat, and desperation. Zughaib slipped through the back entrance of the mall, his face obscured by the oversized hoodie. He kept his head down as he moved through the narrow corridors, past makeshift stalls where vendors peddled counterfeit goods and stolen wares.
But as he reached the section where Alzeez usually operated, there was no sign of him. Zughaib's eyes scanned the area, narrowing in frustration. He was about to turn back when a seller tapped him on the shoulder, a scrawny man with darting eyes and trembling hands. The seller didn't speak; instead, he used sign language, his fingers moving quickly and urgently.
Zughaib understood immediately. Alzeez was in trouble—someone had taken him.
The seller gestured for Zughaib to leave, and without a second thought, he turned and headed back out the way he came. The rain had started again, heavier this time, drenching him as soon as he stepped outside. He kept walking, his mind racing as he tried to figure out his next move.
As he reached a quieter street, his attention was drawn to a familiar sight—the Cleaner, leaning casually against his hearse, speaking to a woman wearing in formal clerk outfit, whose face Zughaib couldn't quite make out in the dim light. The Cleaner's posture was relaxed, but there was always something unsettling about his presence, a predatory stillness that put everyone on edge.
Zughaib resisted the urge to linger. The Cleaner had a way of knowing when he was being watched, and Zughaib didn't need another complication. He ducked into the shadows and headed for another payphone, his movements quick and calculated.
Once inside the small, grimy booth, he dialed the Sprinter van figure again, this time tapping out the details of the situation using Morse code. The silhouette responded almost immediately, the distorted voice carrying a hint of amusement.
"Ah, so you've figured it out, then. Rex—he's the one who took Alzeez. I'm surprised it took you this long to notice. Better move fast before things get messy."
Zughaib didn't respond. He hung up the phone, his mind already forming a plan. Rex. Of course. It made sense now—Rex had been operating in the shadows for years, always looking out for himself, always making sure he stayed one step ahead of everyone else. Alzeez had been an easy target.
Zughaib was about to leave the booth when he spotted a figure sitting at the nearby bus stop. It was the Chinglish guy from before—the one whose bicycle Zughaib had stolen. He was hunched over, talking animatedly on his phone, his eyes darting nervously around the street.
Zughaib's patience snapped. He walked over, his footsteps barely audible on the wet pavement. The Chinglish guy didn't even see him coming. Zughaib grabbed him by the collar, yanking him off the bench and slamming him against the side of the bus stop. The man yelped in surprise, his phone falling from his hand and clattering to the ground.
"Wait, wait, man! What do you—"
Zughaib didn't let him finish. He delivered a quick, precise punch to the man's stomach, doubling him over. As the Chinglish guy gasped for breath, Zughaib rifled through his pockets, pulling out a wad of cash and a bag of chips the man had been carrying. The man groaned in pain, slumping to the ground as Zughaib turned and walked away without looking back.
---
The bus was almost empty when Zughaib climbed aboard, the sound of rain pounding against the windows a constant backdrop. He took a seat near the back, pulling the hood further over his head as the bus rumbled through the slick streets. The bag of snacks sat in his lap, but he didn't touch them. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Rex had taken Alzeez, and now Zughaib had to find him. But there were bigger questions swirling in his mind. Why had Rex taken him? What did he hope to gain from it? And more importantly, how deep did Rex's connections run? Was he working alone, or was this part of a larger play?
The bus jolted to a stop, and Zughaib glanced out the window. The city blurred past, the neon lights reflecting off the rain-slicked streets, casting everything in a surreal glow. He clenched his fists, his mind racing. He would have to be careful. One wrong move, and he'd end up like the others—caught in a web of deception and betrayal, with no way out.
But one thing was certain: Rex wouldn't get away with this. Not this time.
---
By the time the bus reached its destination, Zughaib had a plan. He stepped off the bus, the cold rain soaking him once again, but he didn't care. His path was clear. He would find Rex, rescue Alzeez, and uncover whatever scheme Rex had been hiding.
As he walked down the desolate street, the city looming around him like a shadow, Zughaib knew that this was only the beginning. The stakes were higher than ever, and the lines between friend and foe were blurring fast.
But that didn't matter anymore. He was in too deep now, and there was no turning back.