Every Ally Holds a Knife Behind Their Back

The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the damp smell of asphalt and rust. Inside the abandoned warehouse on the edge of East London, the gang sat in a half-circle, the dim light of a single hanging bulb swaying gently above them. The bulb's flicker sent long shadows crawling across the cracked concrete floor — shadows that seemed alive, whispering secrets no one wanted to hear.

Reggie sat with his back against the wall, cigarette in hand, watching everyone through narrowed eyes. His hands looked relaxed, but his mind was a storm. One of them talked… I can smell it. He flicked ash onto the ground and glanced at Benny, who was avoiding his gaze, drumming his fingers on the table in a jittery rhythm.

On the other side, Clarke — the muscle of the crew — leaned forward, his thick arms resting on his knees. His voice was low, but carried the weight of steel.

“Someone tipped them off about the vault job,” Clarke said, eyes scanning the room. “Cops were there minutes after we left. Too close to be luck.”

No one spoke. The silence was almost physical, pressing down on them.

From the far corner, Molly, the only woman in the gang, lit another cigarette and let the smoke curl around her lips before she spoke.

“Or maybe,” she said with a razor-edge calmness, “the coppers just got smarter. Don’t be so quick to cry traitor.”

But Reggie caught the twitch in her left hand — a tiny giveaway. He’d seen that twitch before, years ago, when someone lied to save their skin.

Across the city – Scotland Yard, Special Investigations Unit

Inspector Callahan stood over a wall plastered with photos, maps, and strings connecting them like a spiderweb. A fresh tip had just landed on his desk — anonymous, encrypted, untraceable.

It read: East Dock, Warehouse 17. Midnight.

Callahan tapped his pen on the table, the sound echoing in the silent office. His partner, Detective Hughes, raised an eyebrow.

“Could be a trap,” Hughes said.

Callahan’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. “That’s why we’ll go quiet. No sirens. No squad cars. Just us… and maybe one eye in the sky.”

A surveillance drone was prepped in under an hour. High-resolution lenses, thermal sensors, and a silent rotor. It lifted into the night, vanishing into the low-hanging fog over the Thames.

Back at Warehouse 17 – 11:48 PM

Tension was boiling. Benny’s voice cracked as he stood.

“I’ve been with this crew six years. Six! And now you’re looking at me like I’m some bloody snitch? If anyone’s got reason to talk, it’s her.” He pointed straight at Molly.

Molly didn’t flinch. She exhaled smoke slowly, her gaze fixed on him like a predator’s.

“Careful, Benny. Accusations can get you hurt in this room.”

Clarke slammed his hand on the table, making the bulb sway violently. “Enough!” he barked. “We’re going to figure this out. Tonight.”

Reggie, still in his corner, finally spoke. “Or… we could take care of the problem now.” His voice was quiet but cut through the room like a blade. Everyone knew what he meant.

Above them, invisible in the fog, the police drone hovered. The camera zoomed, catching every tense movement, every twitch of a hand, every narrowing of the eyes. The feed streamed directly to Callahan’s tablet, his jaw tightening with each passing second.

“They’re ready to tear each other apart,” Hughes whispered.

“Good,” Callahan replied. “Let them. We’ll pick up the pieces.”

12:03 AM – The Betrayal

It happened so fast no one saw it coming. Molly stood to leave, muttering something about air, and as she reached the door, her phone buzzed. Clarke’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” she replied too quickly.

Clarke lunged, grabbing her wrist. The phone clattered to the floor, screen lighting up with a single message: Meet at South Pier. Half an hour. Bring the goods.

The room froze. Reggie stared at her, disbelief and rage mixing in his eyes.

“You sold us out,” he hissed.

Molly’s hand went to the small revolver hidden under her jacket, but Clarke was faster. He slammed her against the wall, the sound echoing through the warehouse.

“Don’t do this, Molly,” Benny said, voice trembling. But deep down, he looked… relieved.

Outside – Police Closing In

The drone’s feed caught every second. Callahan didn’t wait for backup.

“They’re distracted. This is our shot.”

In the shadows beyond the warehouse, two unmarked cars rolled forward, engines purring low. Boots hit the wet pavement, moving in silence.

12:09 AM – Chaos

The warehouse door burst open — not with the police, but with a new figure. A man in a black raincoat, face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. In his right hand, a pistol.

“Party’s over,” he said.

The gang turned. The man’s eyes locked on Molly. “You were late.”

In that instant, Reggie realised — Molly wasn’t working with the cops. She was working with someone far worse.

What happened next was pure chaos. Clarke swung first, the stranger fired, and the sound of the shot ricocheted through the steel walls. Molly ducked, Benny dove for cover, and Reggie pulled his own gun, unsure who to aim at.

Outside, Callahan heard the shot through the drone’s mic. “Move in!” he ordered.

The warehouse erupted in noise — shouting, gunfire, the pounding of boots on metal stairs. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the damp air, stinging eyes and burning throats.

Through the chaos, Molly slipped out the side door, vanishing into the fog.

12:15 AM – The Aftermath

When the smoke cleared, Clarke lay on the floor, bleeding but alive. The man in the raincoat was gone, leaving only a single shell casing behind.

Reggie sat against the wall, chest heaving, realisation sinking in:

The cops weren’t the only hunters in this game.

Callahan stepped into the room, eyes scanning the scene. “Looks like you’ve had a long night,” he said to Reggie.

Reggie’s smirk was tired, bitter. “You have no idea.”

And somewhere, deep in the fog by the South Pier, Molly lit another cigarette, the ember glowing like a tiny warning light in the dark.