Between two kops

Chapter five

Steven

You know that moment when you realize you're losing the battle, so you go all in? That split second when you understand that the rules no longer apply, and the only way to survive the war is to become even worse than those who attacked you first. The ancient Greeks had the Trojan Horse. We didn't have any wooden sculpture. We had metal contraptions on the road, wooden bats prepped in the trunk, and ten crazy heads split between two cars, and a rage boiling inside us harder than any hit of alcohol could match.

In the ultras world, a hoodie isn't just a piece of clothing. It's the honor of the entire crew. It's the flag you wear on your chest. And when someone strips your colors and beats your brother to a pulp, you don't call the cops. You call the crew, raise the whole neighborhood, and go after that revenge that's smiling at you in the dark right at that moment.

Most Grobari were at Jna Stadium that night for the match against Fc Proleter, but not those clowns who beat up our boy. We got a tip off that the crew from Borča was planning another run tonight. Crossing the Danube, wrecking Zvezda's graffiti near the Arena, and leaving another message of their own. That's why we had to cut them off on their own turf before they even made it to the bridge.

Rolling into enemy territory is never an easy job. It's packed with f*****g risk. One wrong turn in an unfamiliar hood can cost you your teeth or something way worse than a beating. But we had the element of surprise on our side. Not a single soul expected us.

"Think they'll pass through here?" Dean asked, glancing at the gps on his phone, which showed us pulling deep into Borča.

"They have to come through here, bro," I said, lighting a cigarette even though the air in the car was already thick and sticky with smoke and nerves.

"Listen, Steven. Once we beat the living hell out of these p*****s from Borča, we're heading straight to Victor's dad's bar. Mr. Dragan's struggling with cash, so we can drop in and throw some business his way," John suggested.

I liked the idea. Next to Dean, Victor was like a blood brother to me. His family fled from their village and showed up in Pančevo with two bags and zero guarantees. Since then, it's been their endless fight for pure survival in this ruthless city. Poverty, bills, unpaid rent, all wrapped in the same package.

"For sure, bro. A successful run needs to be toasted," I replied, looking out the window at the dark streets.

We snuck into a one way street in a convoy and parked the cars in the pitch black. According to our math, that was where the five of them should be passing by shortly with bags full of spray cans and stencils.

I opened the glove box in front of me and pulled out a black bandana printed with a skull. Covering your face is rule number one. In the 21st century, random passersby are worse than surveillance cameras. Every i***t holds a phone in their hands, minding other people's business, just waiting to catch something on video and post it on social media for a few views and clout. I know for a fact that at least a dozen of them will try to capture our run on screen tonight.

My whole life, I've lived by the code that real memories are kept in your head, but nowadays, not a single event can pass without an i********: story or post. We're in this perpetual war on the terrace with posers and clout chasers who come to matches just to take pictures and collect likes. They have no clue where they've ended up, so they nonchalantly record everyone's face, post it on their profiles, and share it without anyone's permission. And then, naturally, because of their f*****g phone, those of us who actually live in rival neighborhoods pay the price. A rival crew spots you on someone else's story, tracks you down in your hood, and beats you to a pulp right on your doorstep until you sing and start snitching on everyone else. That's why this rag over my face tonight was a matter of survival.

Unfortunately, because of so many videos like that and people chasing views, guys lost their lives defending their loyalty to their story and their crew. Meanwhile, those clout chasers with their phones go home, go to sleep, and aren't even aware that with one simple tap, they just destroyed someone's life.

"John, is the trunk unlocked in the back?" Dean asked quietly, without taking his eyes off the windshield.

"Yeah, bro. I left it unlocked before we even set off."

"Alright then, hit up the guys in the other car. As soon as that woman with the grocery bags disappears behind the building, we grab the bats and head for that green building. There's a dark alleyway over there. That's where we lay low until the Grobari show up."

Dean was the only one who actually knew Borča well. John and I had never set foot in this hood before, so tonight he was our brain and the mastermind behind the run. And we took his word for it.

I took a deep breath and opened the door slowly. The cold night air cut across my bare neck instantly, but it felt good. It cooled down that nerves on edge feeling inside me. The doors shut almost silently, one after another, as if the cars themselves knew we couldn't make any noise tonight.

Everyone knew their exact role down to the smallest detail. Everything was mapped out and planned beforehand, precise as a bank heist. No need for pointless questions. I opened the trunk of the gray Nissan. Wooden bats were lying inside, lined up like on an assembly line. I grabbed one, it was heavier than it looked at first glance. Solid raw wood. It fit into my palm like a glove.

I pulled that black bandana up over my face and felt my own warm breath bounce right back at me. I signaled the crew to move behind me without saying a single word. We moved fast, quiet, and controlled, like this was our hundredth time doing the exact same thing.

We bolted straight for the alleyway of that old building. Luckily, there wasn't a single soul outside. Just parked cars and the occasional window lit up by a tv screen. It always made me wonder how many eyes were actually peeking through those curtains from their apartments, only to pretend in front of the cops later that they didn't see a thing.

The alleyway was narrow, but just long enough for the ten of us to stand along the wall, packed tight in the dark with bats in our hands. The concrete reeked of dampness, mold, and urine. The walls were trashed with old graffiti, layers upon layers, crossed out, tagged over, faded. That endless street graffiti war that never really stops.

The light above the entrance flickered dimly and stupidly, as if it was going to die any second and leave us in total darkness. It cast long, distorted shadows across the floor and our sneakers.

Man, how can anyone live here? crossed my mind as I took in the courtyard inside. The building looked eerie, like it was falling apart on its own. Balconies with no railings, peeling gray facade, and window openings without blinds that looked like black holes.

In the distance, a man's laugh broke out, loud, cocky, and relaxed all at once. Grobari.

I peeked out of the alleyway discreetly, just enough so that flickering light wouldn't catch me. The street was dimly lit, but bright enough for me to clearly count them. One, two, three...

Fuck! s**t. I paused for a second, a cold shiver running straight down my spine. I looked at Dean. There weren't five of them, there were eleven. Double the number we were tipped off about. Looks like the Grobari sniffed out that something was up and brought a heavier crew for the Arena run.

"Bro... there's eleven of them. Two are carrying bags on their backs," I muttered through my teeth, quiet but sharp enough for everyone in the hideout to hear.

"What the f**k do you mean eleven? It was supposed to be a handfull of p*****s!" Victor lost his mind in the dark, gripping his wooden bat so tight his knuckles turned completely white.

"f**k 'em, we're still taking them. Steven, just give the sign and we drop 'em!" John said angrily, trying to cut through the panic and keep our momentum going, like nothing had changed.

I squeezed the wood in my hand so hard my palm throbbed. I didn't feel fear, at least not the kind that makes you back down. I felt that familiar pressure in my chest, that charge before a head on collision, when your brain tells you that in just a few seconds everything around you is going to blow up, and after that first hit, there's no turning back. No regrets. No running away.

"Shut up!" I said quieter, but sharper.

I tracked them with my eyes as they approached our alleyway, completely relaxed, flailing their arms, unaware that just a few meters away ten smashed heads with bats were lurking in the shadows. It was all about timing the exact right second. If we burst out too early, they'd scatter down the street and run. If we let them get too close, they'd pin us inside the alley, turning it into our own trap.

Just a couple more steps. Come on, a little closer, just a little. That's it! Now they were so close I could clearly see their faces under a streetlamp. I raised my right hand, held it for a second until their footsteps echoed right in front of the entrance, and dropped it down.

"Now!"

We burst out of the alley at the exact same time, like a pack of hyenas, without a second thought, charging at them at a full sprint.

The element of surprise did more than half the work. The Grobari from Borča froze dead in their tracks, completely caught off guard and rattled. The guy closest to me dropped his bag, and the sharp, metallic clatter of spray cans hitting the asphalt echoed louder than any of our shouting. To them, that was the sound of the beginning of the end of that night.

The first guy standing in my path didn't even have time to throw his hands up, let alone figure out what hit him. I drove the bat straight into his stomach. The boy folded like a lawn chair on the spot, all the air rushing out of his lungs. Two of his buddies jumped straight into the madness to cover him and back him up. Brave on their part, but completely pointless against a wild crew with hardwood bats.

"Let's gooo! Beat 'em down!" Victor roared beside me, followed immediately by the dull, sickening crunch of wood splintering against bone.

I saw Dean wrestling two of them at once, furious and locked in. As I watched the chaos unfold, it hit me that we had never been more ready. John was already chasing down the guy with the bag on his back, who was desperately trying to save their gear.

Adrenaline surged through me, and I automatically kept swinging, driven by pure rage. Another guy lunged at me, maniacally trying to rip the wood from my hands, but I caught him clean on the chin with my left elbow, sending him staggering back. He fell flat on his back, completely dazed. I stepped up to him without a second of hesitation and laid three heavy blows with the bat across his head and back.

His screams and moans with every strike echoed in my mind, but it wasn't enough to make me stop. I beat him like a rabid animal. In that f*****g moment, through that piece of wood, I wasn't just hitting that guy from Borča. I was venting every single problem that had been building up inside me over the years.

Everything was pouring out of me with every strike, without a shred of remorse, right up until the guy beneath me went completely still and passed out cold.

Suddenly, as if someone pulled a trigger, everything around me went silent. My vision blurred, and a wave of sickening nausea surged through my head while a loud, nasty ringing buzzed in my ears, completely throwing me off balance. Still, I grit my teeth and took a deep breath through my nose, forcing myself to stay composed. I couldn't afford to drop now when it was all over.

I lowered the bat, barely catching my breath. I looked around. The street was in absolute ruin. Four of them were lying motionless on the ground, while the rest had taken off in a wild panic down the end of the street, battered and terrified. Victor stood over one of them, keeping the situation under control, while Dean wiped blood off his hand, breathing heavily through his nose. The run was done. They got what they were asking for. Scum.

Christina

It was shortly after nine in the evening when we headed back to Pančevo after Partizan's incredible match and easy victory. The whole way back, Nick was recklessly stepping on the gas, arrogant and overly confident, telling us about the fight that had gone down in Borča just a little while ago. He was bragging about how the Delije had intercepted our guys, beat them with bats, snatched all their graffiti gear, and stripped a few heavy hoodies off their groups. I was only half listening to him.

Fatigue was slowly taking over, but that genuine smile hadn't left my face. I was thrilled. Partizan won, and I had burned off all my negative energy in the stand. At one point, during the utter chaos after the goal, Nick pushed a lit flare into my hands for the first time in my life. Between all that smoke and the sudden rush, I almost set myself on fire, clumsy as hell. But it didn't matter. The feeling of that bright light burning right in front of you while being part of that insane pyro show was simply unbeatable. That was more than enough happiness for me for one day. Alongside Nick, of course.

"Told you we'd destroy them today!" Nick shouted proudly over the wheel. He had actually called the match outcome right, and that fed his ego more than any congratulations ever could.

"We were the absolute best!" I called out, trying to sing over the blaring car radio.

I laughed, feeling the adrenaline finally fade away as my body started to ache. I was exhausted, my throat was burning like crazy from all the screaming, and my hair was completely disheveled from all the shoving, jumping, and those famous mosh pit trains on the terrace. But my heart was still racing. That feeling of belonging, that raw energy of thousands of people... that was the only time I felt truly alive, far away from that marble prison my parents call a home. Over there, everything is neat and sterile. Quiet, stiff, without a single mistake.

"Guys, are we going to Miljan's party? He's throwing a massive one at his cottage. It's gonna be awesome," Michael threw out from the back seat, and I immediately frowned, knowing in advance that Nick and Nadia would jump at the chance.

"Honestly, we could use a little time to unwind. Might as well celebrate a solid win the right way, bro," Nick said, gripping the leather wheel tightly, already imagining himself as the main character and the star of the night.

"Check out what I grabbed from Ranko in the stand," Michael pulled a baggie of fresh green weed from his pocket, holding it up proudly like a trophy.

"Count me in, right now!" Nadia added excitedly, without a second of hesitation.

"Christina, what about you?" All three of them turned to look at me at the same exact second with identical expressions. Expectation mixed with that subtle, familiar peer pressure.

And there it was. The pressure started kicking in. And I really, truly didn't feel like going anywhere. I was exhausted, running on empty. And even less did I feel like watching them wreck themselves with those damn substances within half an hour and lose their minds until morning. That was just one of those flaws I secretly hated about Nick. His endless need to be at every single party, to be seen, to be the loudest one in the room, to be the center of everything. Sometimes, sitting next to him in that same leather interior, I wondered if he even knew how to turn off that aggressive persona to just shut up and be mine alone.

Still, I didn't want to be the one holding him back. I'd never allow myself to do something like that. If he wants to go, let him...

"I'm really not in the mood for a party, honestly."

"Oh come on, Christina. Don't be such a buzzkill. We won't stay long, I swear," Nick said, trying to soften me up with that deep voice of his that usually always worked on me.

"I'm sleepy, Nick. I'm dead tired. I just want to go to bed," I said, this time without acting. And it really was true. The adrenaline had completely melted away, and exhaustion was hitting me in heavy waves.

"What are we doing now?" Michael asked, visibly pissed off.

I know I often annoy him because I refuse to keep up with their pace, but he kept his mouth shut and swallowed it only because of Nick. If he wasn't his best friend, he probably would have thrown it in my face long ago and kicked me out of the crew.

"Nothing. You two go, I'll drop Christina off at home," Nick suggested.

"No, no, no way. You go with them, Nick."

I said it, trying my best to sound as genuine as possible. I didn't want to ruin their plans. Sometimes I even felt sorry for them. They literally live for those parties and drunk nights, while I only occasionally share that world with them.

"No way in hell am I leaving you alone, babe," he shot back in the same second. His gaze turned serious, almost protective. That look always, without fail, melted me inside.

"You're not leaving me, Nick, relax. Seriously. It's not fair that you keep missing parties because of me. The world won't end over one night spent apart."

I said it exactly the way I meant it. Or at least I was lying to myself that I meant it.

Nick locked eyes with me for a few seconds, as if trying to read my face and figure out if I was actually cool with it or just faking understanding. In the end, he caved anyway.

"Are you sure, Christina?"

Nadia and Michael wisely stayed quiet in the back, watching us go through our usual mild back and forth over something that was completely irrelevant and boring to them.

"Yes, I'm sure. Besides, Nadia is there to keep an eye on you. If you pull any bullshit, you're dead meat," I added with a sour joke, just to break that stupid tension in the air. Even though, somewhere deep in my gut, I would have loved nothing more than for him to choose me this time and turn the car toward my house.

"Hey, you can't go home alone at this hour, girl," Nadia chimed in at last, pretending to show some solidarity.

And why, pray tell, couldn't I? What's wrong with taking a quick walk to clear my head?

"Relax, I have my private chauffeur that my mom keeps shoving down my throat, forcing me to call him," I said sarcastically. That word, chauffeur, in my vocabulary had always been synonymous with police handcuffs.

"I love you, babe. You're the best," Nick blurted out with a beaming face, quickly kissing me on the cheek, barely able to wait to step on the gas toward that cottage.

"I love you too, Nick."

We shared a quick kiss, and then they left me in front of the bus station in central Pančevo. That's how I wanted it, just to be clear. They wanted to drop me off all the way home, but I didn't let them. In a split second, I had planned to call a taxi that would show up in a minute, but then a crazy urge took over to just take a walk. So that's what I did.

It was rare for anyone to see me alone at night on the street. My parents always insisted on someone driving me, on security or a chauffeur tagging along, checking in every half hour on where I was and who I was with. They claimed it was all for my safety. To me, that breathing down my neck felt like classic suffocation.

Walking through the half empty streets instantly woke me up. The crisp Pančevo night air felt good, clearing the smell of smoke and sweat off me. Only then did I feel my stomach vibrating violently with hunger. Way to go, Christina. Now you're starving too, I thought ironically.

Just the thought that back home some boring, organic, healthy food was waiting for me. Which I'd have to swallow under the watchful eyes of my parents every single day made me pick up my pace. At our place, everything is healthy, balanced, calculated, and proper. The only thing that isn't is me.

I checked my wallet to see how much money I had on me. Hmmm, 65 euros and 200 dinars. More than enough for a quick bite at a restaurant. I pondered where to turn, but every place I passed was long closed. It was late. That was getting on my nerves more and more, and the hunger was becoming unbearable.

Around the corner, down a side street, I suddenly overheard noise, male voices, and the clinking of glass bottles. I picked up my pace in hopes of stumbling upon an open restaurant or at least a fast food spot working the night shift. And then I spotted it. A small bar with a faded fast food sign above the entrance.

And then a bucket of ice cold water hit me. I saw them.

A large group of Delije had literally taken over the whole joint and the spot in front of it. Some were standing with bottles in hand, some were sitting at plastic tables, and crates of beer were stacked all around. They were loud and totally relaxed. Looks like they were celebrating something.

Their eyes locked onto me the exact second I stepped into the light in front of the cafe. s**t. Christina, you i***t.

I had completely forgotten I was wearing a Partizan t-shirt. In Pančevo, which was considered our town, I had just marched straight into the only pocket where they were having a party tonight, or something like it. All those heavy, probing stares from the crew were fixed right on my chest.

They're not actually going to jump me, are they? I'm a girl, surely they have some code... The last thing I need is to get beaten to a pulp over a t-shirt. Beautiful, Christina, you i***t.

My brain was running at a hundred miles an hour. My first instinct was to turn around and sprint in any direction, but it was too late for that. They had already spotted me, or at least a good majority of them had. I felt those stares on my skin, heavy, sticky, and threatening. Like an invisible force pushing me straight into their midst. If I started running, I'd look like a p***y, and then they'd definitely come after me.

I took a deep breath, straightened my posture, and gripped my purse. It's now or never. I'm going inside, and whatever happens, happens.