Story code: ST-001347
Part 2: The Dead-Man’s Switch
The vibration of the burner phone bored into Marcus’s palm like a live wire. His eyes locked on the matte black grille of the second SUV as it jumped the curb. It angled sharply, cutting off the exit lane.
Marcus kept his hand wrapped tightly around the burner. His rusted Ford pickup was parked three spots away. Too far to outrun a V8 engine on open asphalt.
The passenger window glided down, releasing the heavy scent of stale blunt smoke into the humid air.
“Get in, Marc,” a voice commanded.
It was Dante, Trey’s right-hand man. His eyes were wide, twitchy, scanning the street behind Marcus.
“I’m out, Dante. You know I’m out,” Marcus said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in his chest. “I told Trey.”
“Trey ain’t making calls today,” Dante snapped. There was a dark, wet stain on the sleeve of his white t-shirt. Blood. “That first truck that rolled by? That was King’s crew. They caught Trey slipping on 4th Street twenty minutes ago. It’s done, Marc. The truce is dead.”
If Trey was gone, the fragile peace on the Eastside was shattered. Worse, Trey was the only one who knew Marcus had truly walked away.
“I have nothing to do with King,” Marcus said, gripping the phone in his pocket. “I’m just getting medicine for my wife.”
“You think King cares?” Dante laughed. “He knows about the emergency fund, and he knows you rented the unit. King’s boys weren’t cruising this lot by coincidence. They’re hunting you.”
The burner phone vibrated again against Marcus’s knuckles. A second text.
“Trey set a dead-man’s switch,” Dante whispered frantically. “He authorized you to pull the bag. Bring it to the safehouse, keep twenty percent. That’s ten grand, Marc. You need this.”
Ten grand. The number eclipsed the four thousand, two hundred dollars sitting on the pharmacy tech’s back shelf. It was a month of pills for Elena. Breathing room. But it was also a one-way ticket back into a warzone.
“If King knows about the unit, he’s already heading there,” Marcus said, stalling.
“Then you better drive fast,” Dante said, the window humming upward. “You got an hour before I send the crew to tear your house apart looking for the key. We used to be brothers.”
The tinted glass snapped shut. The SUV threw itself into reverse, tires squealing, before violently tearing out of the lot.
Marcus stood alone in the oppressive heat. Normal life carried on around him, oblivious to the invisible tripwires he was now standing on.
His regular cell phone, in his front jeans pocket, chimed with a soft marimba tone. The contrast to the burner’s violent buzz made him flinch. He pulled it out.
Elena.
He swiped to answer. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey,” her voice was thin, like wind whistling through dry grass. “Are you on your way back? My chest is doing that thing again. The sharp pain.”
Marcus closed his eyes. The blazing sun beat down on his eyelids. “There was a hold-up with the insurance, El. Just a clerical thing.”
The disappointment in her voice was devastating. “Did they say how long?”
“Not long,” Marcus lied, the words tasting like ash. “I’m going to sort it out right now. Just hold on.”
“Okay. I love you, Marc.”
“I love you too.”
He hung up. His checking account balance flashed in his mind. Three hundred twelve dollars. He couldn’t go home empty-handed. If he went home without the medication, he would watch the fluid build in her lungs. He would watch her drown because he wanted to keep his hands clean.
He pulled the burner phone out. The cracked screen glowed.
Message 1: CODE BLACK. UNIT 42.
Message 2: BURN AFTER SECURING.
Marcus shoved the phones into his pockets and sprinted to his rusted Ford. The engine choked twice before roaring to life. He threw it into gear and merged aggressively onto the avenue, heading south toward the industrial park.
His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Every car in his rearview mirror looked like a threat. Dante’s threat echoed in his mind. If Marcus didn’t get the money, Dante would send armed men to the house where Elena was currently shivering.
The vow of peace was a luxury he could no longer afford.
The industrial park sat on the edge of the city limits, a sprawling maze of corrugated metal buildings and barbed-wire fences. Marcus knew the layout by heart. He had rented Unit 42 three years ago when he was still moving product for Trey. A ghost locker.
He turned down the final access road, slowing the truck as the facility’s massive orange gate came into view. He reached into his center console, his fingers brushing past old receipts until they found the heavy brass padlock key hidden beneath a false bottom.
He exhaled a shaky breath, preparing to pull up to the keypad.
But as he rounded the final bend, Marcus slammed his boot down on the brake pedal, throwing his truck into a violent skid. The tires shrieked, kicking up a cloud of pale dust.
The orange gate was already wide open, the electronic arm snapped in half.
Parked haphazardly in the narrow alleyways between the rows of storage doors were three vehicles. Two were street racers with aftermarket spoilers. The third was the black SUV that had cruised past the pharmacy twenty minutes ago.
King’s crew had beaten him there.
Marcus watched through the dusty windshield of his Ford. Four men were standing outside Row D-the row housing Unit 42. One of them was holding a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. Another was holding a matte-black shotgun, resting the barrel casually against his shoulder.
They hadn’t seen him yet. The dust from his skid was still settling in the humid air, cloaking his truck at the end of the access road.
Marcus looked down at his empty hands. He had no weapon. He had three hundred dollars. And he had exactly one hour before Dante’s enforcers kicked his front door in, or Elena’s lungs gave out. The blood money was fifty yards away, guarded by men who would kill him on sight.