Blood Price

I didn’t sleep the night before the job.

Not because I was scared — fear had burned itself out months ago, somewhere between the sinking boat and my first fight in the back alleys of Kuala Lumpur. This was different. My mind kept replaying Malik’s words from the night before:

“One job, Arman. Do it clean, do it fast. Then we’ll see if you’re worth the air you breathe.”

Malik wasn’t just a gang leader; he was a man who didn’t like repeating himself. And the way his crew looked at me during the briefing told me they’d be more than happy to dump my body in a drain if I messed up.

We met just before dawn in a deserted parking lot behind a half-collapsed warehouse. Four black Proton sedans idled with their headlights off. Malik leaned against the hood of the lead car, smoking, his eyes hidden behind dark shades even though the sun hadn’t risen yet.

“You know the job,” he said without preamble when I approached. “You and Kiran ride together. Pick up the package from Jalan Pudu. It’s a quick handoff, but there’s a possibility of interference.”

“Interference?” I asked, zipping up my black hoodie.

“Rival crew’s been sniffing around. We think they might make a play for it. If they do…” He let the sentence trail off, then flicked his cigarette into the gutter.

Kiran, a stocky guy with tattoos crawling up his neck, slapped me on the shoulder. “Means we give ’em a warm welcome. You got a piece?”

I shook my head.

He grinned and tossed me a pistol wrapped in a greasy rag. “Don’t point it at anything you don’t intend to kill.”

I checked the magazine. Full. The weight of it in my hand was heavier than I expected — or maybe that was just my conscience.

We took the highway toward the city center, Kiran weaving through traffic like a man with nine lives. Kuala Lumpur’s skyline rose ahead of us, the Petronas Towers glinting faintly in the morning haze.

“You nervous?” Kiran asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

“No.”

“Good. Nervous people make mistakes. Mistakes get you killed.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Still… first job’s always messy. My first job? I puked on my shoes after.”

“Comforting,” I muttered.

We turned off into a narrow street lined with shuttered shops. The smell of stale frying oil and damp concrete hung in the air.

The meeting point was a dingy electronics shop with a flickering sign that read LIM BROTHERS TRADING. Inside, a wiry man in a baseball cap sat behind the counter.

Kiran gave him a nod. “We’re here for the delivery.”

Without a word, the man reached under the counter and placed a small black duffel bag on top. It didn’t look like much — maybe the size of a school backpack — but from the way Kiran lifted it with both hands, I knew it was heavier than it seemed.

“Go,” Kiran said. “No hanging around.”

We stepped out into the street — and that’s when the first shot rang out.

The glass door behind us shattered. Kiran swore and yanked me behind a parked van as bullets tore into the walls.

“Rival crew,” he snarled, peeking over the hood. “Black jackets, three o’clock!”

I risked a glance. Three men with machetes and pistols were advancing from the far end of the street. Behind them, a white van screeched to a stop, blocking the road. More men spilled out, weapons flashing.

“Move!” Kiran barked, shoving the duffel into my hands. “Back alley!”

We ran, weaving between trash bins and crates. The sound of gunfire echoed off the walls, a deafening metallic thunder.

A man stepped out from a side door with a machete raised high. Instinct took over — I raised the pistol and fired twice. He crumpled, his blade clattering on the ground.

“Not bad,” Kiran said between breaths. “Keep running.”

We burst into a wider alley that connected to the main road. A motorcycle roared to life behind us — one of theirs. The rider aimed a pistol one-handed, the other gripping the handlebars.

“Down!” Kiran yelled, shoving me behind a stack of pallets. Bullets splintered the wood inches from my head.

I popped out, aimed, and fired at the bike’s front tire. The shot landed. The rider lost control, skidding across the pavement in a shower of sparks.

Kiran grinned. “Maybe you are worth the air you breathe.”

We sprinted to the getaway car parked two blocks away. The driver — a skinny kid with bleached hair — slammed the gas the moment we jumped in.

We thought we were in the clear until a black SUV appeared in the rearview mirror, closing fast.

“They’re not giving up,” the driver said, panic edging his voice.

“Take Jalan Raja Laut,” Kiran ordered. “Lose them in traffic.”

The SUV pulled alongside us. I caught a glimpse of the driver — a man with a scar across his cheek — before he rammed our side. Metal screamed against metal.

“Shoot!” Kiran barked.

I leaned out the window and fired at their windshield. The first bullet cracked the glass. The second found the driver. The SUV swerved wildly, crashing into a roadside stall in an explosion of splintered wood and shouting vendors.

We made it back to the warehouse in one piece, the duffel bag still in my hands. Malik stood waiting, arms crossed.

He unzipped the bag, revealing stacks of cash bound in plastic. “Not bad, Arman,” he said after a long pause. “You kept your head. Most don’t.”

I expected praise to feel good. Instead, all I felt was the blood on my hands — figuratively and literally.

“You’re one of us now,” Malik said, zipping the bag shut. “Which means your life is no longer your own.”

Kiran clapped me on the back. “Welcome to the family.”

I forced a smile, but deep down, I knew the truth: families were supposed to keep you safe. This one would get me killed.

And from the way Malik was watching me — like I was both an asset and a potential problem — I knew my blood price hadn’t been fully paid yet.