Mike stared at Felix, trying to read between the lines. He never trusted a man who smiled while delivering bad news. Felix was smiling now.

  "You’re lying," Mike said flatly.

  Felix shrugged, swirling his drink. "Maybe. But are you willing to take that chance?"

  Mike hated the way Felix played him. Always dangling just enough truth to make the bait irresistible. And damn it—Mike was already hooked.

  He pushed his glass aside. "Where’s the shipment leaving from?"

  Felix smirked. "Ahh, see, that’s the thing. It’s complicated."

  "It always is."

  Felix leaned in, lowering his voice. "The convoy moves at midnight. I don’t know the exact location, but I know the guy who does."

  Mike raised an eyebrow. "And let me guess. You want me to get it out of him?"

  Felix grinned. "Smart man."

  Mike exhaled slowly. "Who is he?"

  Felix glanced around before speaking. "Musa Dula. He’s one of Barasa’s couriers. Low-level, but he handles logistics. He’s drinking at Kwa Juma’s joint right now. If anyone knows where that shipment is going, it’s him."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Mike’s stomach tightened. Kwa Juma’s wasn’t just any bar. It was a syndicate bar. The kind of place where you walked in with both eyes open and still missed the knife coming for your ribs.

  "You set me up, Felix?" Mike asked, voice low.

  Felix raised his hands in mock innocence. "Come on, Mike. You think I’d do that to you?"

  "Yes."

  Felix laughed, standing up. "Just find Musa, get the info, and we’re good. Simple."

  Mike scowled. "Nothing is ever simple."

  Felix slapped him on the back. "Then you better be ready for a long night."

  ---

  Kwa Juma’s sat at the edge of town, wedged between a rundown garage and an abandoned hardware store. The neon sign flickered weakly, buzzing like an angry insect.

  Mike took a breath and stepped inside.

  The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sour scent of cheap beer. A rumbling generator in the back provided just enough power to keep the lights dim and the music low.

  Mike moved through the crowd, scanning faces. He didn’t have to look long.

  Musa Dula was exactly where Felix said he’d be.

  A thin man with sharp cheekbones, Musa was hunched over a bottle, laughing with two men who looked like they broke kneecaps for a living.

  Mike walked to the bar, ordered a drink, and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  Musa stood up, excused himself, and weaved through the tables toward the back. Bathroom break.

  Mike downed his drink and followed.

  The restroom was dark, a single bulb flickering above the cracked mirror. Musa was at the sink, splashing water on his face when he noticed Mike in the reflection.

  "Bathroom’s occupied," Musa muttered.

  Mike locked the door. "Not for me."

  Musa turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you?"

  Mike stepped forward. "The guy who’s gonna make your night very difficult."

  Musa snorted. "You think you’re tough?"

  Mike didn’t answer. He just grabbed Musa by the collar, slammed him against the wall, and twisted his arm behind his back.

  Musa yelped. "Alright! Alright!"

  Mike tightened his grip. "The shipment. Where’s it going?"

  Musa’s breath was ragged. "You have no idea who you’re messing with—"

  Mike applied more pressure. Musa gasped.

  "The old quarry road, outside town! Midnight!" Musa blurted. "That’s all I know!"

  Mike held him there for a beat, listening for any lies.

  Then he let go.

  Musa crumpled to the floor, cradling his arm. "You’re dead, man. You don’t know what you just started."

  Mike adjusted his jacket. "Neither do they."

  And with that, he walked out.