Story code: ST-001701
Part 2: The Decoy
The heavy smack of a thick AP History textbook hitting the concrete echoed through the alley. It was followed by a clatter of mundane teenage detritus: a pair of worn-out track cleats, a cracked plastic water bottle that popped on impact and leaked sluggishly into an oil puddle, a crumpled heap of grey sweatpants, and a massive, industrial-grade gel ice pack that landed with a heavy, wet thud.
Silence fell over the alley, broken only by Maya’s ragged, whistling breaths.
Trey stood over the scattered pile, the crowbar hanging loosely from his right hand. He stared at the water bottle, then at the textbook. He used the toe of his sneaker to flip the sweatpants over. Nothing rolled out. There were no tightly wrapped bricks of cash, no vacuum-sealed bags of pills, no contraband whatsoever.
“What is this?” Trey asked, his voice deathly quiet.
Maya did not answer. She remained curled on her side against the base of the chain-link fence, her knees pulled up as close to her chest as her screaming abdomen would allow. Both of her arms were locked tight across her waist in a desperate, unyielding brace. The cold asphalt seeped through her thin track jacket, but it offered no relief to the burning, tearing sensation radiating from deep within her stomach.
“I asked you a question,” Trey snapped, kicking the textbook so hard it skidded into the brick wall, tearing the cover. “Where is the drop?”
“I… told you,” Maya gasped, every syllable requiring a monumental effort. “I am just… going home.”
The enforcer who had ripped the bag from her sneered. “She’s playing us, Trey. East Side sent her empty to test the route. Or she’s a decoy.”
“East Side doesn’t waste time on decoys,” Trey murmured. He did not take his eyes off Maya. He watched the way her shoulders heaved, the way her face was entirely drained of color, slick with a thick, feverish sweat. He watched how her hands never left her midsection, even to brace herself on the ground.
A slow, dangerous realization crept across Trey’s face. He let the empty blue canvas bag drop to the dirt.
“You didn’t care about the bag,” Trey said, taking a slow step toward her. “You held it on your chest to block our view. To take the hits.”
Maya forced her eyes open. The world tilted and swam, the edges of her vision fraying into black spots. The sharp ache in her gut flared into a relentless, grinding agony that made her want to vomit. She tried to push herself backward, trying to melt into the chain-link wire, but there was nowhere left to retreat.
“Look at her,” Trey told his boys, pointing the metal tip of the crowbar at Maya’s hunched form. “She’s holding her gut like it’s made of glass. She’s carrying.”
The boy with the switchblade stepped forward, his eyes lighting up with cruel understanding. “Tape job. She’s got the packages taped under her shirt.”
“Or she swallowed them,” the third enforcer suggested, shifting his weight. “Swallowed a bunch of balloons.”
“Nobody swallows enough weight to make them walk like a crippled dog,” Trey said. He crouched down, bringing his face level with Maya’s. The smell of cheap peppermint gum and stale cigarette smoke washed over her, turning her churning stomach. “Lift the shirt, track star. Let us see what you are muling for them.”
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the physical fog of her pain. Maya shook her head, pressing her forearms even tighter against her body. “No. I swear to you. I don’t have anything. I am… I am sick. I have a stomach bug. Please.”
Trey sighed, a heavy, exaggerated sound of disappointment. “I gave you the easy way, Maya. I really did.” He stood up and snapped his fingers. “Hold her down. Cut the jacket open if you have to.”
The two enforcers lunged.
Adrenaline, born of pure, unadulterated terror, flooded Maya’s system, temporarily overriding the paralysis in her core. As the first boy reached for her shoulders, Maya uncoiled. She ignored the blinding flash of white-hot pain in her waist, throwing her weight to the side. Her right hand brushed against the pile of dumped belongings, and her fingers closed around the hard plastic sole of one of her track cleats.
The boy with the switchblade grabbed her left arm, trying to pry it away from her stomach. Maya swung the track cleat with all the desperate strength she had left.
The sharp, half-inch metal spikes caught the enforcer directly across the back of his hand. He shrieked, dropping his knife as the spikes tore through his skin, leaving deep, bloody parallel gouges.
Maya did not hesitate. She kicked out, her sneaker connecting solidly with the second boy’s knee, sending him stumbling backward with a curse.
Using the fence for support, Maya hauled herself to her feet. The effort cost her dearly; her vision completely whited out for a terrible second, and a strange, wet tearing sensation echoed deep inside her abdomen. She swayed heavily, almost going down again, but managed to lock her legs.
She backed into the corner where the brick wall met the chain-link fence. She dropped the bloodied cleat and snatched up the switchblade the enforcer had dropped. Her hands shook so violently the blade rattled. She held it out in front of her, her left arm still wrapped firmly, protectively, immovably across her waist.
“Stay back!” she screamed, her voice cracking, carrying a desperate, feral edge that echoed off the tenement walls.
The injured enforcer was cradling his bleeding hand, cursing violently. The other boy rubbed his knee, looking to Trey for the green light to brutalize her.
Trey stood perfectly still. His amusement was gone. The lazy, arrogant posture had evaporated, replaced by a cold, rigid fury. He gripped the taped handle of the crowbar with both hands.
“You just bled one of my crew,” Trey said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. “Over whatever you have taped to your stomach. You think the East Side is going to save you now?”
“I am not with them!” Maya cried, tears finally breaking free and tracking through the dirt on her cheeks. “Just let me go! You don’t understand!”
“I understand perfectly,” Trey replied, stepping into striking range, raising the iron bar. “You are willing to die for what you are holding. Let’s find out why.”