roThirty minutes later, Amias found himself shoulder to shoulder with Capari and Dyno in the back room of someone's flat. The air was thick with tension and the acrid smell of weed. Three dozen young men crowded the space, faces grim, eyes sharp. Some he recognized, some he didn't. All were strapped—knives tucked into waistbands, acid bottles wrapped in cloth, makeshift weapons fashioned from whatever would cause damage.
Capari stood at the center, voice low but carrying authority that silenced even the most agitated among them.
"This ain't just about Zain," he said, his eyes finding each face in the room. "This is about respect. About territory. About making it clear that you can't just walk into our ends and touch one of ours."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Amias watched them from the periphery, his expression frozen in a mask of cold determination. He'd changed into black jeans, black trainers, a dark hoodie beneath a North Face jacket. His face was half-hidden by the hood, the shadow it cast making his eyes seem almost black in the dim light.
Dyno paced near the window, periodically peering out at the street below. He'd popped another pill twenty minutes ago, and now his movements had that familiar manic edge to them—too quick, too jerky. He kept licking his lips, grinding his teeth.
"We split into four units," Capari continued, gesturing to a crude map drawn on the back of a pizza box. "Coming at them from different directions. No comms, no phones. Nothing that can be traced back. You get caught, you're on your own."
Ekane pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, stepping forward. "Been waiting time for this," he said, voice low, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Man's been taking liberties too long."
Amias glanced at him but said nothing. Ekane's enthusiasm was almost radiating throughout the room. He didn't draw onto it. His mind was elsewhere—cycling through images of Zain lying in that hospital bed, tubes snaking from his body, machines beeping out the rhythm of a life hanging by threads.
"Ami," Capari called, breaking into his thoughts. "You roll with me, Dyno, Sanchez, Ekane, and Taiwo. We're taking the van. Rest of you split as planned."
Amias nodded once, pushing himself away from the wall.
"Right," Capari said, checking his watch. "Let's move."
They filed out in small groups, staggered departures to avoid drawing attention. Downstairs, a battered transit van waited, its black paint peeling to reveal rust beneath. Not the Range Rover—nothing flashy, nothing traceable.
Dyno slid into the driver's seat, eyes darting constantly to the rearview mirror. Capari took shotgun. Amias, Ekane, Taiwo, and Sanchez piled into the back, sitting on the floor, backs against the metal sides.
"Right, bro," Capari said, turning to face them as Dyno started the engine. "Tonight we send a message."
The van lurched forward, joining a convoy of nondescript vehicles pulling away from the curb. They split at the first junction, each taking a different route toward the same destination.
Inside, someone connected a phone to the van's ancient stereo system. Bass-heavy drill pounded through the speakers, an anthem for what was to come. Ekane nodded his head to the beat, eyes closed, a strange smile playing on his lips. Sanchez checked his knife for the third time, thumb testing the edge. Taiwo stared silently at the floor, expression unreadable.
Amias watched them all and said nothing.
His thoughts drifted to his mother, to the voicemail he'd left her. Stay at Uncle's tonight. Don't come home, no matter what. She'd called back five times. He hadn't answered.
The van hit a pothole, jolting everyone inside. Ekane laughed.
"You look proper solemn, Ami," he said, eyes sharp. "This ain't your first rodeo no more."
"Just thinking," Amias replied, voice flat.
"Bout your mum?"
Amias's gaze snapped to him, suddenly alert. "What?"
Ekane shrugged. "Just saying. Must be worried 'bout her, after what happened to Zain and all."
Before Amias could respond, Capari cut in. "Focus. We're nearly there."
The van slowed, turning down a side street that would bring them to the back entrance of the Westbourne Park estate.
"Remember," Capari said, his voice dropping lower, "we're looking for Kenzo, Apanni, and whoever else is running things. This ain't just about scaring opps. This is about taking heads."
The van rolled to a stop in the shadow of a railway bridge. Engines cut off. Silence fell, broken only by the distant rumble of trains overhead.
"Masks on," Dyno muttered, pulling a balaclava over his face.
They moved like shadows, slipping from the van into the darkness of the underpass. Ahead, the estate loomed—a concrete warren of walkways and balconies, perfect for ambush, perfect for escape.
"Split here," Capari instructed. "Ami, with me and Ekane. Dyno, take the others round the back. We meet at the basketball court in twenty if shit goes south."
Dyno nodded once, then he, Sanchez, and Taiwo melted into the darkness, moving toward the far side of the estate.
Capari led Amias and Ekane through a broken section of fence, into the maze of paths between the tower blocks. The night was unnaturally quiet—no voices from open windows, no music thumping from cars. Just an eerie stillness that made the hairs on Amias' neck stand up.
"Something's off," he murmured, eyes scanning the empty walkways above.
Capari nodded, one hand already reaching for the knife in his jacket. "Yeah. Stay sharp."
They moved deeper into the estate, past boarded-up ground floor flats, past a children's playground with broken swings and graffiti-covered slides. The smell of piss and weed hung in the air, mingling with the damp scent of recent rain.
A sound—the faintest scrape of a shoe against concrete—made them freeze.
Ekane's hand went to his waistband. Capari's fingers tightened around the handle of his knife. Amias felt his heart rate spike, adrenaline flooding his system.
Around the corner, voices broke the silence—young, male, laughing. Amias recognized one immediately. One of Kenzo's youngest runners, barely sixteen but already moving weight across three postcodes.
"Let me," Ekane whispered, a strange eagerness in his voice.
Capari hesitated, then nodded. "Just scare him. We need info."
Ekane slipped around the corner. Amias and Capari pressed themselves against the wall, listening.
"Wagwan," Ekane's voice carried, casual, almost friendly. "Heard you man selling thing innit."
A pause. Then another voice, young, wary: "Yeah, fam. Who's you, though?"
"Jaxon, innit."
"Jaxon, fam? Jaxon?" Confusion, then suspicion coloring the tone. "Jaxon, yeah. Jaxon. I never heard of no Jaxon. Where Jaxon from, fam?"
A beat of silence.
"Where I'm from," Ekane's voice dropped, all pretense of friendliness gone, "a place where you'd get put in a grave."
The sudden crack of metal against bone echoed through the night, followed by screams—girls' voices, high and panicked—and the sound of running feet.
Capari was already moving, Amias close behind. They rounded the corner to find Ekane standing over a body, metal pipe in hand. Blood pooled beneath the boy's head—unconscious or worse, Amias couldn't tell.
Two girls were backing away, eyes wide with terror. One had her phone out.
"No phones," Capari snapped, advancing on them.
The girl dropped it, hands shaking. "Please," she whimpered. "We didn't see nothing."
Capari stopped, considering them for a moment, then jerked his head toward the exit. "Go."
They fled, not looking back, the sound of their footsteps fading quickly into the night.
Ekane nudged Jaxon with his foot. The boy didn't move.
"You said scare him," Amias hissed, dropping to one knee beside the fallen youth, checking for a pulse. It was there, weak but steady.
Ekane shrugged. "He's scared, innit?"
Capari grabbed Ekane's arm, yanking him close. "When I give an order, you follow it. Exactly."
Ekane pulled free, eyes flashing. "Relax. He'll live."
A crackling sound from Jaxon's pocket caught their attention. His radio—the kind dealers used to communicate when they thought police were monitoring phones.
"Bruv, yo coming still fam? Bring pizza yea—"
Capari snatched it up, silencing it with a twist of his wrist.
They left Jaxon where he lay, moving deeper into the estate at a rapid clip. The silence from earlier was gone, replaced by distant shouts, the occasional crash of something breaking.
Elsewhere, the rest of their crew was making itself known.
…..
10 Minutes Later
Abruptly, Capari steered them into a narrow alleyway between buildings, holding up a hand for silence. Voices approached—three, maybe four men, walking together, one talking loudly about some deal he'd just arranged.
"...telling you, bruv, easiest five grand I've ever made. Just had to persuade the man that his product wasn't up to standard, right? Then offered to take it off his hands for half price."
Laughter followed—the easy, confident sound of young men who feared nothing, who controlled their domain.
Capari's eyes narrowed. He recognized that voice—one of MGZ top lieutenants. The one who'd tried to extort payment from shops along Ladbroke Grove.
He nodded to Amias, a silent question. Ready?
Amias gave a single nod in return.
As the group reached the end of the alleyway, two vans screeched to a halt, blocking their path. They spun, instinctively moving to retreat, only to find their escape cut off by figures on bikes that had slid in behind them.
Trapped.
Three shadowy figures stepped forward from the darkness of the alley—Amias, Capari, and Ekane. Behind the trapped men, Dyno, Taiwo, and Sanchez closed in, completing the circle.
"Wam to you man, fam?" Dyno's voice carried, mockingly cheerful.
The trapped men huddled closer, one stepping slightly in front of the others, the lieutenant—Myo—his face contorted with recognition and fear.
"Look," he started, voice pitched higher than usual. "This ain't—"
Capari raised his hand, silencing him. "Which one of you runs things for Kenzo on this side?"
No one spoke.
Dyno stepped forward, seizing one of the younger boys by the collar, dragging him away from the group. The boy stumbled, nearly falling.
"No, no, no," The Myo interjected quickly. "Leave him. He ain't involved. I'm Kenzo's man on this side."
Capari smiled beneath his mask. "Finally. Some honesty."
He nodded to Dyno, who shoved the young boy aside. The kid scrambled away, disappearing into the darkness.
Myo looked between them, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. "Look, whatever Kenzo's done—"
"Where is he?" Amias cut in, his voice cold and flat.
"I don't know, I swear," Myo insisted. "He moves around. Doesn't tell us where he stays."
"Apanni, then," Capari pressed. "Where's he at?"
His eyes widened. "Apanni? Man, I ain't seen him in days. Word is he's laying low after—"
Myo caught himself, but too late.
"After what?" Amias stepped closer, his knife now visible in his hand.
He swallowed hard. "After some boy got touched. It wasn't supposed to go like that. They were just meant to send a message, not nearly kill him."
Something in Amias snapped. All the cold calculation, all the forced detachment—it crumbled, replaced by a white-hot rage that surged up from some primal place within him.
He lunged forward, pressing the tip of his knife against Myo 's chest, right over his heart.
"A message?" he hissed, voice barely audible. "You think putting swinging a machete that almost killed someone is a message?"
"We'll sort it," Myo babbled, eyes fixed on the knife. "I'll speak to Kenzo. We'll pay whatever—"
"You think this is about money?" Amias pressed the knife harder, feeling it pierce the fabric of the jacket. "My friend might even die because of you lot."
"I'll—I'll call Kenzo right now," Myo offered desperately. "We'll work something out, yeah?"
For a moment, Amias considered it. His hand trembled slightly, the knife's pressure easing by a fraction.
Then Capari stepped up beside him, a gun in his hand. He raised it, pressing the barrel against Myo's forehead, then made an exaggerated "bam" sound with his lips, mimicking a gunshot as he tapped the barrel against his head.
"Stay safe," Capari murmured, his tone almost gentle as they turned to leave.
Myo's face had gone ashen. "F-fam, we'll—"
Amias drove his knife forward, not enough to penetrate, but enough to feel a heartbeat hammering against the blade.
"We'll what?" he growled. "Say it, then. You bad like that, fam?"
His mouth opened, then closed. No words came out.
Amias held his gaze for one more second, then shoved him backward, hard enough that he stumbled and fell to the ground.
"Get him in the second van," Capari ordered, nodding toward Dyno and Taiwo.
They seized him by the arms, dragging him toward the nearest vehicle. He didn't resist, his body limp with fear.
Amias watched, a hollow feeling settling in his chest. This was supposed to feel like victory, like vengeance. Instead, it felt like nothing—just another step down a path that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, leading nowhere good.
Ekane approached, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You moving different tonight, Ami. I like it."
Amias shrugged the hand away, not bothering to reply.
…
Camden, 11:19 PM
A door explodes inward, splintering off the hinges, the battered wood barely hanging from a single screw. The flat stinks of sweat, weed, and stale beer. In the living room, a group of young men—six, maybe seven—jerk their heads up, caught mid-game, fingers still clutching controllers as if their reaction speed on FIFA might save them from what's coming.
"Wassup, fam?"
Three figures rush in, dark-clad, masked up. No hesitation, no wasted movement. One of them, Slim, slams a crowbar across the closest man's face, sending him sprawling backward onto the couch, blood already bubbling from his nose.
Another man lurches up, reaching for something—knife, bottle, anything—but Kells is on him before he even gets a grip. A knee to the gut, a vicious hook to the temple, and he crumples, the knife sliding uselessly under the coffee table.
The third masked man—Deeks—tosses a bottle across the room. The thin glass smashes against the wall, releasing a hiss, a sickly-sweet burn filling the air. Someone screams, clawing at his face, skin already blotching red, the acid eating through flesh like it's hungry.
"Dumb yute, shoulda been moving smarter."
No time for games. Kells kicks over a duffle bag, bundles of cash spilling across the floor like autumn leaves. Slim's already got a second bag open, shoveling packs of weed, pills, wraps—whatever fits. Deeks flips a chair over, dragging another bag from underneath it.
"Man's eating good tonight."
In the hallway, footsteps thunder. More heads? Maybe. Maybe not. No time to find out.
"Cut. Now."
They move fast, out the way they came, feet hammering the stairs, bodies crashing through darkness. The echoes of panicked voices—shouts, cursing, crying—fade behind them as they hit the street, blending into the night like they were never there.
Westbourne Park, 11:23 PM
The park is empty but for the cold wind rustling through the trees, the occasional glint of a knife blade in the half-light. Three yutes pedal slow, their tires whispering over the damp concrete, their laughter bouncing off the silence.
They don't see it.
Not until it's too late.
Figures emerge from the shadows, hoods up, faces hidden. No words, no threats, no build-up. Just movement. Fast, violent, precise.
One of them hurls a bottle. It smashes against a forehead, liquid splattering, sizzling on contact. The boy drops his bike, a howl splitting the night as he clutches his face, collapsing, writhing.
The others try to move—panic, muscle memory, survival kicking in—but a second bottle follows. Another splash, another scream, the smell of burnt flesh thick in the air.
The last one—fastest of the three—tries to bolt, his bike skidding as he kicks off hard. He almost makes it, almost, but a brick sails from the darkness, catching him in the side of the head. He topples, hitting the ground hard, skull bouncing off pavement.
Ladbroke Grove, 11:24 PM
The alleyway is quiet, only the soft rattle of dice on concrete breaking the silence. Five men crouch in a half-circle, eyes locked on the tiny cubes, money changing hands in quick flicks of the wrist. The air smells of damp brick, cigarette smoke, and cheap aftershave.
Then, headlights flare.
Engines rev.
Tires screech.
Figures pour from the dark, all blacked out, knives glinting in the dim streetlight. No shouts, no time to run.
The first man doesn't even scream, just stumbles back, clutching at his stomach as red spills between his fingers.
Another tries to bolt, but a blade sinks into his back, twisting, ripping. He chokes, falls face-first onto the concrete.
One of them fights back—throws a punch, wild and desperate—but someone sweeps his legs, and he goes down. The knives find him before he can get back up.
The fourth man—halfway up, hands bloody, shaking—manages a single, ragged breath before they fall on him, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing. The wet sound of blades meeting flesh fills the alley, drowning out the distant sound of sirens.
By the time they run, the ground is slick, the bodies still twitching.
One of them—Sparky—leans down, spits on the last man before jogging off into the night.
Ghosts leaving blood in their wake.
-
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Just so you know I have a football story; I'd read from chapter 71 up because I can guarantee you'll enjoy that match
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If you beat me in a race on disc you get another chapter today