‘You’ve killed three men this week and shoved them into a wood chipper, andthat’swhat haunts you?’
She huffs as we turn a corner, and the street narrows. Ahead, a neon light flickers above a boarded-up betting shop. Mickey is supposed to be waiting for us there.
‘Now, please be quiet,’ I suggest, low and clipped. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for Mickey.’
She scoffs. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Tall...’ My voice falters. How do I describe Mickey, an enforcer with fists like cinder blocks? ‘Doesn’t matter. Just point if you see someone.’
She falls silent, finally, and the street breathes around us. Then, he’s there. He steps out from a side street. He doesn’t greet us, just nods, and then crouches beside the pavement.
‘You see this?’ he points, brushing aside the debris to reveal the faint insignia. I kneel beside him. ‘It’s still fresh,’ I say, rubbing my finger over the carving. The mark is too clean. No signs of time settling over it. The lines of the carving are crisp, not worn or rounded. Older carvings tend to erode from foot traffic, rain and grit. The exposed stone beneath the surface is lighter than the surrounding pavement. Over time, it would have darkened to match.
‘Interesting,’ I whisper, crouching closer.
‘What?’ Mickey asks, his voice wary.
‘It’s an Ouroboros.’
He crinkles his nose. ‘What’s that?’
I trace the serpent’s curve with my fingertip, expecting the tail to disappear into its own mouth. ‘The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol of eternity. Life devouring itself. Death feeding rebirth. A serpent eating its own tail represents the cycle that never ends.’
Mickey watches me. ‘Sounds poetic. Or cultish.’
‘Both,’ I glance up. ‘It means whoever carved this isn’t just sending a message.’
He crouches again beside me, his breath steaming from his mouth against the chill. ‘If it’s meant to eat its own tail, why is the tail severed?’
‘I don’t know. The Ouroboros is meant to be whole. It’s saying someone isn’t just rejecting the cycle – they’re trying to rewrite it.’
I withdraw my phone; thumb already hovering over the shutter. I crouch low, my knees groaning in protest as I angle for every shot – wide, close, each photo capturing the serpent’s broken loop.
Mickey exhales. ‘I know a guy, he’s not a historian, but he’s seen ritual symbols, coded messages – stuff most people wouldn’t pay attention to even if they tripped over it.’
I nod. ‘Tell him it’s urgent.’
Mickey’s eyes narrow. ‘If anyone’s got ears in the underground, it’s Mateo, he’ll know something.’
Twelve calls. Five drop-ins, and two bribes later there’s no whisper of rebellion against the Sanchez family from anyone.
Mickey leans back against the van, the metal groaning as the panels push outwards. ‘Either everyone’s scared, or the Sanchez family’s grip is tighter than we thought. Families here don’t move unless there’s profit or panic. Which one is it?’
I glance out the window, looking down the dark street – it’s empty, silent. ‘If Mateo’s out and Rosa’s got nothing, it’s hard to say. There’s chatter about the Albanian networks clashing with the Costellos in Birmingham, but that’s it.’
Mickey sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘Rosa doesn’t do “nothing”. If she’s quiet, it’s because she’s holding her cards close to her chest.’
I nod in agreement. She wouldn’t be down here anyway. ‘Manchester is her chessboard. She’s got half the docks, a third of the cops, and every nightclub north of London paying protection. If she’s not moving, she’s either not involved or she’s waiting for someone else to move and make the first mistake.’
I glance at my watch, and Mickey sighs.
I lean against the far wall of the van, arms folded. The air smells of sweat. Mickey’s fingers tap his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. ‘Only one person left who might know what’s going on.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Who?’
He hesitates, and then dials. ‘Her name is Delilah. Used to run intel for the Perez family before they imploded. Now she freelances – ghost-level stuff. If someone’s making moves against the boss, then Delilah’s probably on their tail.’
‘Will she pick up for you?’
