Page 24 of The Shape of my Scar
He sat behind a battered metal desk littered with takeaway cartons and stacks of files. His head was shaved smooth, tattoos snaking up his neck and vanishing under his collar. He was short but thick-set, nose bent, lips blackened from years of chain-smoking. He smelled like old sweat and ashtray.
“Take a seat, lad,” Malcolm said, his voice thick. “Got a job. Needs tight hands. Not fussy ones.”
The deal was textbook: an associate holed up in Whitefield, looking to ghost out before someone cut his throat. There had been a fight in a bar with a Bratva brigadier, followed by an incident involving said brigadier’s wife. He was valuable to the operation, and their team would handle the lift. Simple containment, quick payout.
They hammered out the logistics, payment, and timelines.
Thane kept his tone level and detached.
But in the back of his mind, he saw that little girl.
As he stood to leave, he paused at the door. Made his voice casual. “Who’s the broad?”
Malcolm’s grin turned sly. “Ah, that’s Trish Malcy. She is a looker, ain’t she? Import from Romania. Handles the girls- she’sgood with ’em. Soft touch and cold heart. Does liaising, looks after the merchandise.”
Merchandise.
The word hit like a punch to the chest.
It took Thane a few seconds too long to register what he’d actually seen. What he’d let pass unchallenged.
Trish was delivering her.
His hand twitched near the holster beneath his coat.
One second more and he might’ve done it—put a bullet through Malcolm’s skull right there.
But he didn’t.
There was a larger game at stake.
Outside, the car was gone.
The girl, Trish, the vehicle, all vanished like fog on the canal.
Thane climbed into his own and pulled out fast, his knuckles white on the wheel.
His earpiece crackled.
“Did you get all that?” he asked, voice low.
Lirian’s voice came through, calm as ever. “Every word.”
Chapter 11
This job wasn’t simple.
It had started with a call. A name.
Anatoly.
The Pakhan who ran the Bratva’s Manchester operations out of a quiet estate behind grand gates that screamed exclusivity.
They had done a few gigs for him before—transport, pick-ups, the occasional clean-up—but nothing too deep. Nothing too dirty.
But this time was different.
This was a summons, not an invitation.
