A DEEP STAB

The warehouse sat in darkness, its corrugated metal walls gleaming dully under the distant streetlights. Marcus Rojo crouched behind a shipping container, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid December air. Twenty-three years old, lean and sharp-eyed, he'd been planning this job for six months. Tonight, everything had to go perfectly. Radio check he whispered into his earpiece. Loud and clear, brother. The voice belonged to David Rios, his partner since they were kids, running cons on the South Side. David was positioned at the main entrance, his bulk hidden in the shadows. Where Marcus was the brain, David was the muscle—six-foot-three of loyalty wrapped in a leather jacket. Tommy, you there? Static crackled before Tommy Hilf's nervous voice came through. Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Security cameras are looped. You've got a twelve-minute window before the real feed kicks back in. Marcus smiled grimly. Tommy had been the last addition to their crew—a tech genius with gambling debts who needed the money as badly as they did. The kid was brilliant but jumpy, and Marcus had spent weeks convincing David to trust him. The warehouse belonged to Vincent ‘Kompany’ Torrino, a mid-level crime boss who laundered money through his import business. Intelligence suggested two million in cash was sitting in the office safe, payment for a shipment that had "gone missing" from the docks. It was blood money, Marcus told himself. They were just redistributing it. Remember the plan. Marcus said, checking his watch. In and out, quiet as ghosts. David, give me thirty seconds, then move to your position. Copy that. Marcus sprinted across the open space between containers, his soft-soled shoes silent on the concrete. The side door's lock had been his first challenge—Tommy had disabled the alarm, but the physical security was old school. Marcus had practiced on identical locks for weeks. His picks worked smoothly, and within fifteen seconds, he was inside. The warehouse stretched before him like a cavern, filled with towering shelves of legitimate inventory that provided perfect cover for Torrino's real business. Marcus moved between the aisles, heading for the office complex at the far end. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his hands remained steady. I'm inside, he breathed. Good, David's voice was calm, reassuring. I've got eyes on the parking lot. Still clear. The office door was trickier—a newer electronic lock that required Tommy's skills. But the kid had done his homework. The LED blinked green, and Marcus slipped inside. Torrino's office was exactly what he'd expected: expensive furniture, cheap art, and the lingering smell of cigars and cologne. The safe sat behind a painting of a racehorse—cliché, but effective. Marcus swung the artwork aside and stared at the digital keypad. Tommy, I need that code. Working on it... Okay, his daughter's birthday backwards, then his lucky number. Try 4-2-8-0-1-9-7. The safe clicked open. Marcus's breath caught. Stacks of bundled hundreds filled the interior, but there was something else—a leather portfolio tied with a string. His curiosity got the better of him. Inside were photographs: David shaking hands with Detective Ray Morrison, David passing an envelope to a man Marcus didn't recognize, and David sitting across from Vincent Torrino himself at a restaurant table. The photographs were timestamped over the past three months. Marcus, you need to move. Security patrol just turned onto the street. David's voice crackled through the earpiece, but now it sounded different. Distant. False. Marcus's world tilted. His best friend since childhood, the man he'd trusted with his life, had been feeding information to the very people they were trying to rob. But why warn him about security if— The realization hit like ice water. The patrol wasn't coming to stop the heist. They were coming to catch Marcus red-handed. David had sold him out, probably for immunity from his outstanding warrants. Marcus? You there, brother? That word—brother—now sounded like a knife twisting in his chest. Marcus grabbed the money and the portfolio, his mind racing. The front exit was compromised, but there was a loading dock at the rear. He could slip out through the maze of inventory, but he'd have to move fast and stay quiet. Yeah, I'm here, he replied, forcing his voice to remain steady. Just finishing up. Good man. See you at the rendezvous. The lie came so easily to David that Marcus almost admired it. Almost. He clicked off the radio and started moving, keeping to the shadows between shelves. Behind him, he could hear voices—multiple people entering through the front. David's voice among them, no longer whispering. He should be in the office. Remember, we need him alive for questioning. Marcus's jaw clenched. Not only had David betrayed him, but he'd set him up to be captured, not killed. Which meant David needed something from him—information, perhaps, or leverage against someone else. The loading dock was fifty yards away when Marcus heard the footsteps behind him, moving with purpose through the aisles. They knew exactly where he was going. Of course, they did—David had helped plan this route. But David didn't know about the emergency exit Tommy had mentioned, a fire door on the east wall that connected to the adjacent building. Marcus veered left, clutching the bag of money and evidence of his best friend's betrayal. He reached the door and pushed. It opened into an alley that reeked of garbage and motor oil. Marcus ran toward the street, his mind already working on survival, on what came next. Behind him, shouts erupted from the warehouse. He's not here! Check the other exits! David's voice, frantic now: Marcus! Marcus, where are you? Marcus smiled coldly as he disappeared into the maze of backstreets. David thought he was the only one capable of betrayal. He was about to learn otherwise. The game had changed. The brotherhood was dead. Now it was war.