Page 1 of Raze
Chapter 1
Nico
“Okaaaay…” I sigh, taking a look around. “So much time to kill, and no one to kill it with.”
The warehouse smells like oil and betrayal, a sour mix that clings to my skin like the memory of every bad choice I’ve ever made. I’m Nico, 21, and trouble’s been my shadow since I was old enough to know what it meant to be unwanted.
Foster homes were my childhood—six of them by the time I was sixteen, each one a different flavor of disappointment. Cold dinners, locked doors, foster parents who looked at me like I was a paycheck or a punching bag.
It wasn’t an easy childhood. Far from it.
But I learned early to rely on myself, to charm my way through the cracks of a system that didn’t give a shit. I had my looks, my cunning, and honestly it felt like I had so little to lose that I never minded taking a big risk. After all, what was the worst that could happen to a kid who had already probably experienced it?
By sixteen, I wasdone.
I hit the road, drifting from town to town, earning money however I could—hustling pool in dive bars, running packages for guys who don’t ask for ID, lifting wallets when times get lean.
And I’m still doing that now.
I’m good at it, too.
Always have been, probably always will be.
People see my sharp cheekbones, my messy hair, and these big blue eyes everyone says could charm a snake, and they underestimate me. That’s their first mistake.
Their second mistake is thinking that I’m not as low down and dirty as they are. The truth is that living the kind of life I’ve lived for so long, I know all the tricks in the book. And I’ve probably invented a few new ones myself. For every situation, I’ve got a play locked and loaded, ready to see me walk out on top.
But even with my looks and street smarts, I’m still living this life like the rest of the hustlers and schemers out there…
Right now, I’m slouched against a stack of crates in this rundown warehouse on the edge of town, babysitting a pile of stolen goods for some lowlife crew I barely know. They’re not exactly a crew I’d be scared of, but they’ve got that wild don’t give a fuck attitude that makes them dangerous unless I keep my wits about me. But there’s no danger of me slacking and getting caught though. I’ve been running with assholes like this long enough to know how to move.
I’m here to get paid, get out, move on to the next job.
The crates are stuffed with electronics—phones, laptops, maybe some car parts, all shrink-wrapped and screaminghot. I don’tneed to check the labels to know it’s stolen, probably swiped from some other dumbass crew who thought they could play big.
My job’s simple: sit tight, keep watch, and don’t ask questions.
The crew—guys with names like Snake and Tito, who smell like cheap beer and cheaper cologne—dumped me here while they’re out on the streets, no doubt setting up deals to move this junk.
I’m the expendable kid, the one they leave holding the bag.
Fine by me.
I’ve been in worse spots, and I always come out smiling.Usually.
The warehouse is a shithole, all cracked concrete and rusted beams, with shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. The air’s heavy, thick with dust and the faint hum of a flickering fluorescent light overhead.
A single bulb swings from a frayed cord, casting jagged light over the crates and the graffiti-scarred walls.Fuck the system, someone’s spray-painted in red, and I can’t help but smirk. Mood. Definitely amood.
There’s a busted window near the loading dock, letting in a sliver of moonlight and the distant hum of the nearby industrial town. I’m fiddling with a loose thread on my ripped jeans, half-bored, half-wired from too much coffee, when the low growl of motorcycles snaps me out of it.
“Interesting,” I whisper, my voice low, my survival instincts kicking in.
My heart kicks up a notch, but I don’t panic. Not yet.
I’ve heard bikes before—plenty of crews roll through these parts, flexing muscle, making noise. I figure it’s just some wannabe gang scoping the place. I can handle that. I’ve talked my way out of tighter jams than this, using charm like a switchblade.
I’ve also got a gun… which hopefully I won’t need to use. But if it comes down to it, I’ll do whatever I need to do.
