The old Chevy pulled up beside an empty street lined with hollow trees. A tall, grey-haired man in his mid-forties stepped out, putting on his shabby overcoat as the icy autumn winds stung his cheeks.

“The usual spot. Midnight. Don’t be late.”

Dalton glanced at his watch. Quarter to twelve. He stared at the faulty streetlights as he walked along the pavement, flickering in the darkness. Dalton could hear his own footsteps thudding on the asphalt as he made his way down the street. He walked past buildings, apartments and the occasional make-do swing, made from a tire hanging down from a tree branch by a length of rope. He stopped abruptly, his rendezvous in sight. It was a dark alley, used for the disposing of worthless items, neglected by the everyman of society. He walked on.

Six minutes to twelve. Dalton stood there is the alleyway, concealing his restless, agitated thoughts. What urgent matter was Rusty referring to? Had his cover been blown, or were the cops hot on his heels? What was Rusty’s status?

They would have to wait to be answered. Five minutes to twelve.

Time, excruciatingly slow, passed him by. It was unlike Rusty to be late in times like these. Where was he? Before any possible explanation came up from the back of his head, Dalton felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey buddy, you-”

Instinctively, Dalton twisted the man’s right arm inward and grabbed hold of the arm on the left, applying pressure on the elbow. He was about to depress the nerve ending when he realised who it was. A cop! Who could have told on them? Maurice? The drunkard could have blabbed out things he shouldn’t have. Or perhaps-

“Let go of me! What’s the matter with you? I’m from the police department, on-duty patrolling! Let go!” the thick-moustached man in blue exclaimed, clearly in pain.

Dalton let go of him.

“Sorry, it was instinct. I thought you were a thug,” the grey-haired man apologised. He noted the name on the man’s right breast pocket: T. Hawkins.

“I would too, in this place. No hard feelings, friend,” T. Hawkins muttered, massaging his arm lightly. “The crime rate has been increasing in this district, and I thought it would be wise to warn you. Well, what’s your business here anyway?”

Dalton thought of a cover almost immediately and softly replied, “I’m searching for used glass bottles in this dump. I heard the recycling plant gives a few cents for each.”

The cop sighed, as though it was not the first time he heard of such things.

“Here’s some greenbacks, use it to buy a meal or something. I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave the premises. I mean, you never know who’s gonna’ be around here at this time, you know? Drug runners, money launderers; you name it, this place has it. I could escort you if you like.”

Dalton shook his head and took the notes, mumbling a word of thanks before walking away until he was out of sight. He didn’t suspect a thing. That was a close one, though. The whole thing would have to be called off. It was obvious Rusty wasn’t coming, in any case. Dalton swore to himself that he would find out the cause of Rusty’s absence. What on earth happened to the kid? At that exact moment, he heard something that sounded like a spit, followed by another. In a few seconds, Dalton was dead; his corpse sprawled on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. Those spits were gunshots, muffled by a silencer.

A young man with a red Manchester United cap covering his messy blond hair stepped out onto his front porch and picked up the newspaper. He went in, kicking the door shut with his left foot, as he scanned the headlines under the “Home News” section. He found what he was looking for and tossed the newspaper aside. He pulled out a mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a few numbers on the keypad.

“Boss? It’s done,” Rusty said, his blue eyes fixed on a pistol lying on his desk with a silencer attached, two bullets missing from its barrel.