Scene 1: The Resignation

  The whiskey in Tommy’s glass was expensive, but tonight, it tasted like ash and failure. He sat in his darkened office, staring at the phone on his desk. It had buzzed two minutes ago.

  A message from Solomon Gats. Attached was a photo. It was grainy, taken in low light, but the subject was unmistakable. Junkie Joe, the king of Block 13, lay twisted on the floor like a discarded pretzel. Next to him was his safe—wide open and empty.

  The text message below the image was brief, professional, and infuriating:

  "Contract terminated due to violation of payment terms (Paragraph 4, Subsection B). The acquired assets ($80,000) have been retained as a Severance Package. Good luck with your future recruitment endeavors."

  "He fired me..." Tommy whispered, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "The four-eyes fired ME?!"

  He hurled his glass against the wall. It shattered, spraying amber liquid everywhere. He had created a monster. He thought he was hiring an accountant, but he had hired a shark. And now the shark had tasted blood.

  Tommy knew his own men. They were thugs, bullies, street rats. Against Solomon’s team—the Giant, the Mechanic, and that... abomination called Benny—his men would be slaughtered. He needed a specialist.

  Reluctantly, hating every second of it, Tommy picked up his secure burner phone. He dialed a number he had sworn never to call again unless the world was ending. It rang once.

  "Shalom!" A voice chirped on the other end. It was bright, cheerful, and sounded completely out of place for a contract killer. "You have reached Niko’s Pizza and Assassination Services. Today's special is pepperoni with a side of 9mm. How can I help you?"

  Tommy rubbed his temples. The headache was instant. "Cut the crap, Niko. It’s Tommy."

  "Tommy The Gut!" Niko exclaimed. "Long time no see! How’s the cholesterol? You know, in Israel, we eat a lot of hummus. Very good for the heart. Did you know chickpeas are actually a superfood? I can send you a recipe—"

  "Shut up, Niko," Tommy growled. "I have a job. I need a cleaner."

  "A cleaner? Or a Cleaner?" Niko’s voice dropped the playfulness for a split second, then bounced back. "Because if you want your carpet cleaned, I know a guy. But if you want a problem removed from existence... my rates have gone up. Inflation, you know? Bullets are expensive."

  "I have a target. A team of four. Led by a suit named Gats."

  "Four targets? Ooh, a party pack!" Niko laughed. "That’s gonna cost you. Twenty grand. Upfront."

  "Twenty?!" Tommy choked. "Last time it was five!"

  "Last time I didn't have to listen to you breathe heavily into the phone," Niko quipped. "Plus, I’m saving up for a vacation. I want to see the Grand Canyon. Did you know the Grand Canyon was formed by the Colorado River over 6 million years ago? It’s amazing what persistence can do. Speaking of persistence, are you going to pay or what?"

  Tommy gritted his teeth. He hated this man. He hated his voice. He hated his trivia. But Niko was ex-Israeli Special Forces (Sayeret Matkal). He could hit a coin from a mile away. He could break into a bank vault with a paperclip. He was the best.

  "Twenty grand," Tommy hissed. "Done. But I want them to suffer, Niko. Especially the guy with the glasses. Make him regret being born."

  "Consider it done, boss man!" Niko chirped. "I’ll bring my favorite rifle. Her name is Matilda. She gets lonely. Shalom!"

  Click.

  Tommy slammed the phone down. He poured another drink. "I hope they kill each other," he muttered.

  Scene 2: Capital Allocation

  Location: "The Greasy Spoon" Diner. 2:00 AM.

  The diner smelled of old frying oil and despair, but to us, it smelled like victory. We sat in a booth at the back. Benny was currently demolishing his fifth cheeseburger. There was mayonnaise on his chin, ketchup on his cheek, and pure bliss in his eyes. He ate with the focus of a surgeon, dismantling the burger bite by bite.

  Gara was counting the money under the table. Again. "Eighty thousand," Gara whispered, his eyes gleaming like headlights. He caressed a stack of bills. "Boss, can I get my cut now? I saw this gold chain at the pawn shop. Thick as a rope. And I need to upgrade the Cadillac. Maybe a nitro boost? Or neon lights under the chassis?"

  I took a sip of black coffee. It tasted like battery acid. "No," I said flatly.

  Gara’s smile dropped. "What? But... we earned it! I hit a guy with a wrench!"

  "This is not lottery money, Gara. This is Seed Capital," I explained, pulling the cash away from him. "If you spend it on gold chains, you’ll be broke next week. We are reinvesting."

  I separated the money into stacks. "$30,000 for Capex (Capital Expenditure)," I slid a stack toward Gara. "You take this. Go to the black market. We need guns. Real ones. Not rusty pistols. Rifles, body armor, and surveillance gear. Get receipts if you can."

  Gara looked at the money, then sighed. "Fine. No neon lights. But I’m getting a shotgun. A big one. For... asset protection."

  "$10,000 for Bonuses," I slid a smaller stack to the center. "Buy yourselves some decent food. And Daniel... buy a new jacket. You look like a homeless runway model."

  Daniel, who was sulking in the corner, brightened up. He grabbed his share. "Finally! I saw a Prada windbreaker that is simply divine."

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  "$40,000 for Reserves," I put the rest in the briefcase. "This is our war chest. We don't touch this unless it’s an emergency."

  "Now," I leaned forward. "We have a logistics problem. We have money, we have muscle, but we are homeless. We can't operate out of a car. We need a Headquarters. A secure facility."

  "I know a motel..." Gara started.

  "No motels," I shook my head. "Too public. Too dirty. We need a warehouse. Isolated. Secure."

  I turned to Daniel. I opened my laptop and spun it around. "According to my research on LinkedIn," I pointed at the screen. "Your father, Mr. Archibald Sterling, is the Director of Operations for Zenith Interiors. A very successful logistics and furniture company."

  Daniel turned pale. "No. No way. Don't even ask."

  "Zenith Interiors owns Warehouse 4 at the docks," I continued, ignoring him. "It’s currently listed as 'Decommissioned' due to asbestos removal last year. It’s empty. It’s perfect."

  "My dad hates me!" Daniel whispered, looking terrified. "He thinks I’m a failure! If I ask him for a favor, he’ll lecture me for three hours and then kick me out. He hates criminals. He only likes... successful people."

  "Then we will be successful," I said. "We need those keys, Daniel."

  "I can't!" Daniel whined. "Please, Solomon. Let’s just rent a basement!"

  I looked at Benny. He was licking ketchup off his fingers. "Benny," I said.

  Benny looked up. "Yeah?"

  "If Daniel doesn't get us the warehouse," I said calmly, "we will have to sleep under the highway bridge tonight. You and Daniel will have to share a cardboard box for warmth. Cuddling will be mandatory."

  Benny grinned. A piece of lettuce was stuck in his teeth. "Warm... Toy."

  Daniel looked at Benny’s greasy face. He imagined sleeping in a box with the man who snaps spines for fun. He shuddered violently. "Okay!" Daniel pulled out his phone, his hands shaking. "I’ll call him! I’ll call him! Just don't make me cuddle Benny!"

  Scene 3: The Pitch

  Location: The Sterling Residence. Upper East Side.

  The house was aggressively clean. Everything was white, beige, or gray. It smelled of lemon polish and high expectations. We stood in the living room.

  Solomon: Suit pressed, glasses cleaned. CEO Mode activated. Daniel: Slouching, terrified, radiating the energy of a puppy that peed on the expensive carpet. Gara: Wearing a polo shirt I forced him to buy, trying not to steal the silver coasters. Benny: A monolith stuffed into a suit three sizes too small. He resembled a granite statue wrapped in cheap polyester, standing silently in the corner.

  Mr. Archibald Sterling walked in. He was a man carved from granite and disappointment. He wore silk pajamas, but he carried the authority of a boardroom executioner. He ignored us and looked straight at Daniel.

  "You’re alive," Mr. Sterling grunted. "Your mother was worried. I told her you were probably in a ditch somewhere."

  "Hi, Dad," Daniel squeaked. "I... uh... I brought friends. Colleagues."

  "Colleagues?" Mr. Sterling raised an eyebrow. He looked at me. "You look like an accountant. That one looks like a thief (pointing at Gara). And that one (pointing at Benny)... looks like he eats accountants."

  "Good evening, Mr. Sterling," I stepped forward, extending my hand. "My name is Solomon Gats. CEO of Aegis Urban Solutions."

  "Aegis?" Mr. Sterling didn't shake my hand immediately. "Never heard of it."

  "We are a stealth-mode startup," I lied smoothly. "We specialize in High-Risk Asset Recovery and Physical Data Management. In layman's terms... we solve difficult problems for difficult clients."

  "And my son?" Mr. Sterling scoffed. "What does he do? Get coffee?"

  "Actually," I adjusted my glasses. "Daniel is our Chief Relationship Officer. His... physical presence and knowledge of the local 'ecosystem' have been invaluable. He’s closing deals, Mr. Sterling. Big deals."

  Daniel blinked. "I am?" I subtly kicked Daniel’s shin. "Yes! I am!" Daniel yelped. "I’m closing so many deals, Dad! The biggest deals! Tremendous deals!"

  Mr. Sterling looked at Daniel, then at me. He saw the bruises on Daniel’s face. But he also saw the expensive jacket. He saw that Daniel wasn't high, wasn't drunk, and was standing next to a man (me) who spoke the language of business.

  "He’s working?" Mr. Sterling asked, a hint of hope in his voice. "Like... a real job?"

  "A demanding job," I nodded. "We are expanding rapidly. That’s why we are here. We need a temporary incubation space. I saw that your Warehouse 4 is currently idle. We would like to lease it. Off the books, of course, until our Series A funding comes through."

  Mr. Sterling crossed his arms. "And how do I know you’re solvent? I don't run a charity for my son’s friends."

  I didn't blink. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a thick stack of $100 bills—$5,000 in total. I placed it on the coffee table. Thud.

  "A retainer," I said calmly. "For utilities, maintenance, and security deposits. We pay cash. We pay on time. And we improve the property value."

  Mr. Sterling looked at the cash. Liquidity. He respected liquidity. He walked over to a drawer and pulled out a heavy set of rusty keys. He tossed them to Daniel. Daniel caught them, fumbling.

  "Warehouse 4," Sterling said. "It’s full of sawdust and rat droppings. If you burn it down, I’m suing you."

  "Thank you, sir," I smiled. "You are investing in the future."

  As we turned to leave, Mr. Sterling called out. "Mr. Gats."

  I stopped. "Yes?"

  The old man walked up to me. He lowered his voice so Daniel wouldn't hear. "I don't know what kind of 'startup' requires a man like him," he nodded at Benny. "But I know my son. He’s soft. He’s been pampered his whole life. He cracks under pressure."

  He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "If he’s going to work in your world... he needs to change."

  I looked at Daniel, who was opening the front door. Daniel paused, looking back at his father’s turned back. There was no love in Daniel's eyes. Only a flicker of resentment. "One day," Daniel muttered under his breath, barely audible. "I’m going to buy this whole damn company and fire him."

  I looked back at Mr. Sterling.

  "Pressure makes diamonds, Mr. Sterling," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "But it also crushes coal. I intend to apply the pressure. What he becomes... is up to him."

  Sterling nodded, satisfied. "Fair enough. Now get out."

  Scene 4: The Mobilization

  We walked to the car. The night air was cold, but the adrenaline kept us warm. Gara jumped into the driver's seat, clutching the address of a black market arms dealer. Benny squeezed into the back, instantly falling asleep.

  Daniel stood by the door, looking back at the mansion one last time. He gripped the rusty warehouse keys in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

  "He thinks I'm a joke," Daniel whispered.

  "He thinks you are a liability," I corrected him, opening the passenger door. "Prove him wrong. Turn yourself into an asset that he cannot afford."

  Daniel looked at me. The goofy fear was gone, replaced by a sullen determination. "Let's go to the warehouse, Solomon. I want to hit something."

  I smiled. "Drive, Gara. We have a headquarters to build."

  The Cadillac roared to life, speeding away from the manicured lawns of the rich, heading toward the dark, industrial heart of the docks. We had the money. We had the base. Now, we just had to survive the war.

  End of Chapter 8

  Author's Note:

  Niko vs. Solomon: Tactical brilliance vs. Special Forces experience. Who are you betting on?

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