Page 49 of Corrupt

Sami nodded. “Yeah. Can do. I’ve got lab access. After-hours. No one checks the TLC plates in the postgrad room.”

Smart kid.

Dead kid, if he ever crossed the wrong person.

But smart.

“It looks… good so far.” Sami glanced up. “Just weirdly uniform. Like…like someone engineered the crystal structure on purpose.”

My stomach dipped. Engineered? Not kitchen-cooked? Not local?

Cormac. What the fuck are you involved in now?

“I’ll be back later.” I stepped back, needing air. Space. Distance from the pink shimmer on the table.

Tariq held up a hand. “Wait for the call. Don’t come back in person unless you have to. Don’t bring anything through here again, yeah?”

Smart advice.

Scary advice.

I left the back, went out into the shop, shut the counter and unlocked the front door. Then I stepped back into Hackney’s harsh daylight, street noise hitting me. Kids shouting, a bus screeching, someone blasting drill from a car parked on double yellows. And my phone buzzing, scaring me half to shit.

Joe’s text: u coming 2day? need the books

Right.

Laundry day.

I headed back towards the car; the packet burning a hole in my pocket like a secret I hadn’t asked for. I didn’t know what was worse; the drug being dirty and dangerous…or the drug being clean. Too clean. Perfect.

Perfect meant it was safe enough to take at least. No one would drop dead on my dance floor. And that kind of perfect would give someone the biggest high of their life, the best fucking time, especially if doing it as a twosome.

Lucky sods who tried that.

But perfect also meant it wasn’t just a product. Perfect meant someone had engineered this. Designed it. Built it for a purpose. And that purpose sure as fuck wasn’t small time. Cormac wasn’t just expanding; he was evolving. And I’d just agreed to be his frontman. I needed to get my head around it. Fast.

Luckily, there was only one place I could think straight, and I was heading there anyway. So I hauled the duffel from the boot, then walked the rest of the way to Joe’s café with every nerve wired tight. I should’ve been used to carrying bricks of cash by now, but I was spooked. Waiting for someone to jump me, or worse, for blue lights to wash over the pavement. Not even I could talk my way out of a duffel full of drug money when I had lab-grade MDMA burning a hole in my pocket too.

Slack.

Fucking slack, Richie.

I reached Joe’s and pushed through the door. The bell rattled overhead, the same as always. I headed straight to the back table and slid the duffel under it. Joe didn’t need a summons. He came over with a mug of tea before I’d even sat down.

“Got some washing?”

I nudged the bag with my boot. He crouched, unzipped to see the bundles, bands, and an entire weekend’s worth of cash needing to be turned invisible before sunrise.

He whistled. “Good week.”

“Mm.”

He zipped the bag shut and looked at me properly. “Not very chatty.”

I took a sip of tea, letting the sweetness settle in my throat.

“Alright.” Joe patted my shoulder once, a solid, old-man gesture hitting deeper than any shove. “I’ll run it through the drawer. Full English coming up. You look like you need feeding.”