Fire in the Alley

The deal was supposed to be simple.

Midnight. An alley near the docks. A briefcase full of uncut diamonds in exchange for a duffel bag full of euros. No names. No questions. Just a flash of the merchandise and a handshake. I had done riskier things. But this—this felt different.

Maybe it was the weather. A hot, humid night with no wind and no stars. Or maybe it was the silence—the kind of silence that hangs right before everything explodes.

We arrived ten minutes early. Arka was beside me, fidgeting with the safety on his pistol. Rafi sat on the edge of the van, chain-smoking and muttering to himself. I wore a black hoodie, face covered, and a knife taped under my sleeve. Kamal’s voice still echoed in my ears from earlier:

"Don’t screw this up, Arman. This is our name on the line. One wrong move and we lose everything."

Everything. Funny word. When you’ve got nothing left to lose, "everything" feels like a distant dream.

A black SUV pulled in at 12:01 AM sharp. No headlights. Just the low purr of its engine. Two men stepped out, faces obscured, one carrying a silver case.

That’s when I noticed it—the third man in the shadows, crouching on the fire escape above, holding something long and metallic. My heart dropped.

"Sniper," I whispered.

Arka reached for his pistol. I grabbed his wrist.

"Don’t. Not yet. Let’s confirm."

We walked forward. I gave the usual nod. One of their men opened the briefcase, revealing the diamonds. Arka unzipped our duffel, filled with tightly packed bundles of bills. For a moment, everything looked fine.

Then came the whistle. Sharp, high-pitched.

It wasn’t a signal we used.

Suddenly, gunfire burst from above.

The man on the fire escape opened fire—at them. Not us. Two of their men dropped immediately. One tried to run but got a bullet in the back. The diamonds scattered across the alley floor like fallen stars.

Arka returned fire. Rafi was already ducking behind the van, yelling, "Set-up! We’ve been double-booked!"

I yanked out my knife, lunged toward the diamonds, grabbed the case, and ducked just as bullets sparked off the pavement near my head.

The SUV exploded.

Flames engulfed the alleyway as I dove behind a dumpster, coughing from the smoke. Screams. More bullets. The entire deal had turned into a war zone.

"Who the hell are these people?" I shouted.

Rafi yelled back, "Russians! Kamal didn't tell us we were stepping on their turf!"

Great.

Another burst of bullets raked the alley. I spotted Arka limping, blood trailing down his leg.

I had a choice—run with the diamonds or save Arka.

I cursed and went back for him.

We barely made it out, crawling through a sewage tunnel behind the docks. I carried Arka on my shoulder, his blood soaking my hoodie. The diamonds? Still in the case, handcuffed to my wrist.

By dawn, we were holed up in a broken warehouse. Arka was pale and unconscious. I called Kamal.

"You set us up," I growled.

"Relax," he replied coldly. "You’re alive, aren’t you?"

"You knew the Russians would be there."

"It was a test. And you passed."

I stared at the phone in disbelief. "A test?"

"You’ve got the case, don’t you? That makes you a player now, Arman. Welcome to the real game."

He hung up.

I sat in silence, heartbeat echoing louder than ever.

I had survived.

But at what cost?