Johnny Boy’s Last Run
Loyalty doesn’t keep you alive. It just makes dying slower
Johnny Boy was a terrible bagman. Hell, Johnny was terrible at everything, except maybe staying loyal. And loyalty—stupid, unwavering loyalty—was the only reason he was still on my crew. Every outfit needs a Shlep, someone to do the grunt work, to haul the weight no one else wants to carry. That was Johnny. All he had to do tonight was pick up a drop at Sheraton and Vine from the Martin twins. Simple job. Nine p.m. sharp.
The diner was a graveyard, the kind of place that used to vibe with midnight truckers and restless drunks, but now just sat there, humming its fluorescent buzz, a tired echo of its former self. The waitress—a skeletal woman with bad teeth and a worse attitude—slapped my coffee down without a word. It splashed onto the table. She didn’t apologize. I didn’t ask her to.
It was 12:30 a.m., and Johnny Boy was late. Of course, Johnny Boy was always late. Hell, Johnny could get a jumpstart on tomorrow and still end up behind schedule. But tonight? Tonight was different. Tonight, I was sitting on a $50,000 question, and Johnny had the answer stuffed in a cheap duffel bag.
I stared out the window. The city outside was quiet in that way it gets just before the demons come out. The traffic lights flipped red to green over empty streets. A homeless guy shuffled by, his cart rattling like loose change in a dryer. I lit another cigarette; the flame cutting through the smeared glass, and waited.
Johnny wasn’t much. Someone to carry the bags, take the heat, keep his mouth shut when the cops start asking questions. The guy you keep around because, even when he screws up, he’s too dumb to betray you. At least, that’s what I’d always told myself.
The bell above the diner door jingled, and my pulse jumped. It wasn’t Johnny. Just a couple of kids—skinny, hollow-eyed punks wearing the Misfits crimson ghost patches, who looked like they’d trade a kidney for a score of whatever they were on. They gave me one quick glance and moved on. I went back to my cigarette.
I checked my watch. 12:37. The drop was supposed to happen three hours ago at Sheraton and Vine. The Martin twins, reliable as a loaded gun, were handing off a bag stuffed with fifty grand, and all Johnny had to do was pick it up and bring it to me. Simple, right? But Johnny Boy had turned “simple” into “impossible” more times than I could count.
My phone buzzed. I snatched it off the table, half expecting Johnny’s name on the screen. Instead, it was a number I didn’t recognize. For a moment, I hesitated. Then I answered.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Mac, it’s me,” came Johnny’s voice, jittery and out of breath.
“You on a hard line?”
“Yeah.”
“Where the fuck you been, Johnny? I’ve been sitting here for two hours waiting for the drop.”
There was a pause, the kind that comes before bad news. Then Johnny spoke.
“I ran into an old friend. Said he’s got some deets on where Ray’s been hiding.”
Ray. The name hit like a gut punch. A nasty lowlife thug who’d been bleeding my operations dry for months. If Johnny had a lead, it could change everything. But right now, I wasn’t interested in changing everything. I just wanted my fifty grand.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“He’s up in the mountains. In a cabin. Waitin’ out the storm, I guess.”
“You guess or you know?” My voice was low, cold.
“I—uh, I don’t know, Mac. That’s just what my friend said.”
I leaned back in the booth, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Johnny stuttered when he was nervous, and he sounded like a goddamn Morse code machine right now.
“This friend,” I said, “what kind of friend, Johnny? A long-lost friend? A close friend? A fuck friend?”
“Ah, ah, ah… a kid I went to school wit’ back in the day.”
“And you just happened to run into him tonight? The night you’re holding fifty large in a bag? You stopped to chit-chat with this guy?” I could feel my blood rising, the cigarette burning down between my fingers.
“I didn’t wanna be rude or nothin’, Mac. I didn’t wanna look outta place.”
“Outta place? Johnny, what if this was a setup? What if he was just a decoy to keep you talking while somebody put a bullet in the back of your head? You’d be up with the big guy right now, looking down on me, wondering why I’m not saying nice things at your funeral. Does this feel like heaven to you, Johnny?”
He didn’t answer. I could hear him breathing—fast, nervous.
“Listen, get on the train and get your ass back here before it shuts down for the night. I’m not coming out there to save you. And for Christ’s sake, don’t stop anywhere else. You hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Johnny said, his voice shrinking like a kicked dog.
I hung up, shoving the phone back into my pocket. My coffee was cold, my patience colder. Johnny Boy was loyal, sure. But loyalty doesn’t mean much when the wolves are circling, and you’re holding the meat.
Loyalty doesn’t keep you alive. It just makes dying slower.
The Drop at Sheraton and Vine
Johnny gripped the duffel bag like it might sprout legs and run off. The train car rattled and swayed, its wheels screeching as they carved through the night. He sat hunched in the corner, trying to shrink himself, but at six-foot-two and built like a beer keg, Johnny wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.
The car was nearly empty. A couple of teenagers sat sprawled near the middle, headphones leaking tinny beats into the air. An older guy in a cheap suit nursed a flask, his tie undone like he’d lost the will to care somewhere between the office and the station. The rest of the seats were bare, their plastic surfaces gleaming under the flicker of fluorescent lights.
Johnny stared at the window, watching the city smear into darkness. His leg bounced like a piston, the rhythm matching the train’s uneven clatter.
Stop thinking about it. That’s what Mac would’ve said. “Do your job, Johnny. Don’t think, just do.” But thinking was all Johnny could do now.
He replayed the night in his head. The Martin twins had been on time, like always. They handed him the bag, threw in their usual wisecracks about his stutter, and vanished into the shadows. Easy enough. Then, as Johnny turned to leave, there he was.
“Johnny Boy!”
The voice stopped him cold. He looked up and saw a guy crossing the street, his face lit by the pale orange glow of a streetlamp. Skinny, wiry, the kind of face you don’t forget even after twenty years. Frankie Rizzo.
Johnny hadn’t thought about Frankie since high school, and yet here he was, acting like they’d seen each other yesterday. Frankie talked fast, his words tumbling out like dice in a craps game, but one word stuck: Ray.
Ray, the ghost that haunted every conversation Mac had these days. Frankie claimed he knew where Ray was hiding, up in some cabin in the white mountains. Said he had proof. Johnny didn’t know what to make of it, but Frankie insisted, planting seeds of doubt until they’d taken root.
Now Johnny couldn’t stop thinking about Mac’s reaction when he mentioned it. He’d sounded pissed, sure, but underneath, there was something else. Worry, maybe. Fear? Mac never showed weakness, but Ray—Ray was different.
Stay in Your Lane
The train screeched to a stop, jolting Johnny out of his thoughts. He glanced up. The teenagers were gone. The man in the suit was still there, his head lolling as the flask dangled from his hand.
Johnny adjusted his grip on the bag. As the doors hissed shut and the train lurched forward, he noticed someone new.
A man stood near the far end of the car, leaning casually against a pole. He was thin, with sunken cheeks and a sharp scar that curved along his jaw. He wasn’t looking at Johnny—at least, not directly—but his eyes kept darting over in quick, jittery glances.
Johnny’s pulse quickened. He shifted in his seat, trying to block the bag with his body. Maybe the guy was just another commuter. Or maybe not.
The man moved, strolling down the aisle with the loose swagger of someone who didn’t care how much noise they made. He stopped a few feet from Johnny, close enough to make him sweat.
“Late night, huh?” the man said, his voice raspy, like he’d smoked one too many cheap cigarettes.
Johnny didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead, pretending the guy wasn’t there.
“Nice bag,” the man said, his tone casual, almost friendly. “Looks heavy.”
Johnny clutched it tighter. His leg had stopped bouncing. Now it was frozen, stiff as a steel bar.
“Relax, buddy,” the man said with a chuckle. “I’m just making conversation.” He leaned in slightly, and Johnny caught a whiff of stale sweat. “Funny thing about bags like that, though. They attract attention. Especially if you’re not careful.”
Johnny’s throat went dry. He could feel the guy’s eyes boring into him, dissecting him piece by piece.
“You gotta stay in your lane,” the man continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “That’s the trick, see? Stay in your lane, and you won’t end up like Ray.”
Johnny’s head snapped toward the man at the mention of the name. The guy smiled, a thin, crooked line that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah,” the man said. “Ray’s watching, you know. Always watching.”
Johnny reaching in slow for his pistol.
“Easy cowboy, I mean no harm.”
The train screeched again, louder this time, and Johnny flinched. When he looked up, the man was gone. Johnny’s heart was pounding now, loud enough to drown out the train’s clatter. He clutched the bag to his chest, muttering under his breath.
“Stay in my lane. Stay in my lane.”
Mac flicked his cigarette onto the wet asphalt and watched it fizzle out. Johnny wasn’t answering his phone. Again. That wasn’t unusual since I classically conditioned him to use hard lines. Johnny had the attention span of a fruit fly and the reliability of a broken clock. But something about tonight had Mac’s gut doing somersaults.
He leaned against the hood of his car, staring at the diner’s flickering neon sign. “Best Coffee in Town,” it claimed. A lie, just like everything else in this fuckin’ city. Mac considered heading back inside to wait, but the thought of another cup of their dishwater coffee made his stomach churn.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed. The call rang twice before a voice answered, gruff and half-asleep.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Mac,” he said. “The twins made the drop, right?”
There was a pause, long enough to make Mac’s grip tighten on the phone.
“Yeah,” the voice said finally. “They made it. No problems.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
Mac didn’t like the hesitation. It clung to the guy’s words like cobwebs, sticky and hard to ignore. But he didn’t press. Not yet.
“Alright,” Mac said, ending the call. He slid the phone back into his pocket and tapped his fingers against the car’s hood, thinking.
Johnny had his routines, his little quirks. Mac knew them better than he cared to admit. When Johnny got spooked—or when he screwed up—he had a habit of running to familiar ground. Most of the time, that meant one of two places: his girlfriend Teri’s or his sister’s place in Southie.
Mac decided to start with the sister. Teri was annoying, but Johnny’s sister? She’d give him an earful even Mac didn’t have the patience for. If Johnny had gone to her place, Mac would hear about it.
He climbed into his car, the leather seat creaking as he settled in. The engine rumbled to life, a low growl that matched his mood. As he pulled onto the street, the city blurred past in streaks of orange and gray.
The west end was quiet, the kind of neighborhood that had been rough a few decades ago but now just felt tired. Rows of triple-deckers leaned against each other like old drunks, their paint peeling in long, sad strips. Mac found the one he was looking for—a pale green building with a busted porch light—and parked across the street.
The staircase inside was narrow and steep, each step creaking under his weight. By the time he reached the third floor, he could hear the muffled sounds of a TV. He knocked, three short raps, and waited.
The door cracked open, a chain rattling behind it. Johnny’s sister, Carla, peered out, her face a mixture of exhaustion and suspicion.
“Mac,” she said flatly. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Johnny,” he said. “He been here tonight?”
Carla frowned. “Why? What’s he done now?”
Mac sighed. “I just need to know if he’s been here.”
She unlatched the chain and opened the door wider. The apartment smelled like stale coffee and the faint tang of cleaning supplies. Carla crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe.
“He hasn’t been here,” she said. “Not tonight. But he called earlier. Said something about Ray.”
Mac’s jaw tightened. “What about him?”
“I don’t know,” Carla said, shrugging. “He sounded… off. Like he was scared or something. He told me to keep an eye on Ma, just in case.”
Mac glanced past her into the apartment. Through the thin walls, he could hear an old woman humming softly to herself. Johnny’s mother. Mac had known her long enough to know she didn’t hum unless something was wrong.
“He say anything else?” Mac asked.
Carla hesitated, her frown deepening. “He said he was gonna fix it. Whatever ‘it’ is. Said he couldn’t screw up this time. But, Mac…” She lowered her voice. “I think he’s in over his head. He sounded desperate.”
Desperate. That word sat heavy in Mac’s chest, a cold weight pressing against his ribs. He nodded, stepping back toward the stairs.
“Thanks, Carla,” he said. “If he shows up, call me. Immediately.”
Carla didn’t respond. She just nodded, her arms still crossed as she watched him leave.
Back in the car, Mac lit another cigarette and stared at the darkened streets line with triple deckers. Johnny wasn’t just late—he was running scared. And scared men made mistakes.
Mac exhaled a long plume of smoke, his mind racing. If Johnny had gone to Ray, this whole thing could blow up faster than he could stop it.
Mac dialed his phone again. This time, he wasn’t going to wait for answers to come to him.
“Family doesn’t get you killed,” Mac muttered, staring into the night. “It’s everything else that does.”
Johnny stepped off the train into the kind of night that wraps around you like wet wool—heavy, damp, and suffocating. The streets here were quieter than he liked. No honking horns, no chatter spilling out of bars. Just the occasional zap of a streetlamp and the rhythmic slap of his boots on the pavement. He tightened his grip on the duffel bag, glancing over his shoulder every few steps.
Frankie’s directions led him to a bar he didn’t recognize—a hole-in-the-wall with a neon beer sign blinking weakly in the window. The kind of place where you’d get three things: cheap drinks, bad decisions, and regrets that followed you homelike being at Triple O’s or L St. Tavern.
He hesitated outside the door, his reflection staring back at him from the glass. His face looked older, more tired. The stubble on his chin had gone gray at the edges, and the bags under his eyes had bags of their own.
Johnny adjusted his grip on the bag again, willing himself to move.
It’s for Ma, he thought. For Carla. They need you to do this.
He stepped inside.
The air thick with stale beer and sweat. A jukebox in the corner warbled out an old rock tune, barely audible over the low murmur of voices. A few men sat scattered at the bar, hunched over their drinks. No one looked up.
At a booth near the back, Frankie sat with two other guys. Frankie waved him over, grinning like they were old pals meeting for a drink instead of orchestrating a deal that might get them all killed.
“Johnny Boy,” Frankie said as Johnny approached. “Took your sweet time, didn’t ya?”
Johnny slid into the booth, setting the bag on the seat beside him. His eyes flicked to the other men— both pale, both radiating the kind of energy that said they wouldn’t hesitate to put a knife in your ribs if the price or circumstance was right.
“This him?” one of them asked, his voice flat and nasal.
Frankie nodded. “This is him. Told ya he’d come through.”
Johnny shifted in his seat. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Easy, easy,” Frankie said, holding up his hands. “No need to rush, Johnny. We’re all friends here, right?”
Johnny didn’t answer. His gaze darted to the bag, then back to Frankie.
“Ray’s expecting this,” Frankie said, nodding toward the bag. “You hand it over, and we make sure you and your family are taken care of. No more late-night calls. No more looking over your shoulder. Sound good?”
Johnny swallowed hard. “And Ma? She’ll be safe?”
Frankie leaned in, his grin widening. “Safe as safe can be, Johnny Boy. Ray’s word.”
Johnny hesitated, his fingers twitching against the edge of the bag. Something about Frankie’s grin made his stomach churn. He glanced at the other men again. One was staring at him, unblinking, while the other drummed his fingers against the table, his nails tapping like distant gunshots.
“Tick-tock,” the finger drummer said, his tone mocking.
Johnny’s throat went dry. He wanted to believe Frankie. Wanted to believe this was the right thing to do. But Mac’s voice echoed in his head: What if it’s a setup, Johnny? Huh? What if this guy’s a decoy?
“Come on,” Frankie said, his tone sharpening. “You don’t trust me?”
Johnny met his gaze, his chest tightening.
“No,” he said quietly.
The booth fell silent. Frankie’s grin faltered, and the other men shifted in their seats.
“You sure about that, Johnny?” Frankie asked, his voice low, dangerous.
Before Johnny could answer, the bar door swung open. The dim light from outside cut through the haze, and every head in the room turned toward the figure stepping inside.
Mac.
He stood there for a moment, his coat draped over his shoulders, his eyes scanning the room. When they landed on Johnny, his expression hardened.
“Johnny,” he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
Johnny froze, the bag still clutched in his hand.
“Who’s this?” one of Frankie’s men asked, reaching under the table.
Mac’s hand moved faster. The dull gleam of a gun barrel appeared, aimed steady and sure.
“This is over,” Mac said, stepping toward the booth.
Frankie chuckled nervously. “Hey, now. Let’s not do anything rash, Mac.”
Mac ignored him, his focus on Johnny. “Get up,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
Johnny didn’t move. His hands shook, his grip on the bag tightening.
“Johnny,” Mac said again, softer this time. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”
Frankie shifted, his smile gone. “He’s not going anywhere,” he said. “Not until we finish our business.”
The tension was a living thing, crawling across the room like a snake. Mac’s gun didn’t waver.
“Johnny, I’m not asking,” Mac said. “Get up.”
Johnny swallowed hard, his legs feeling like lead. He slid out of the booth slowly; the bag clutched to his chest.
The moment he moved, chaos erupted.
Frankie lunged for the bag, one of his men drawing a gun. Mac fired first, the shot deafening in the small space. Glass shattered, chairs overturned, and the bar exploded into violence.
Johnny ducked, clutching the bag as bullets flew around him. He scrambled toward the door, his heart pounding like a war drum.
Behind him, Mac’s voice barked commands, but Johnny didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
He burst through the door and into the night, the bag heavy in his arms and guilt heavier on his heart.
The streets were alive now, even this late—alive with sharp corners, and the echo of boots pounding on concrete. Johnny ran like he had a gun to his head. In his mind, he did.
The duffel bag slapped against his side with every step, but he didn’t dare let it go. Mac’s voice thundered in his ears, though he knew it wasn’t real. Not yet. The real voice would catch up soon enough.
“Don’t stop no wheres or nuttin’, hear me?” Mac had said. Yeah, well, too late for that.
He ducked into an alley, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. The air smelled of rot and piss, but it was dark, and right now, dark was good.
Johnny pressed himself against the brick wall behind a dumpster, his chest heaving.
Farther down the alley, another dumpster rattled. A stray cat darted out, its eyes glowing like little green lanterns. Johnny clutched the bag tighter, his heart hammering against his ribs.
In the distance, footsteps echoed. Steady, measured. Not running. Not hurried. But relentless.
Johnny didn’t have to guess who it was.
Mac.
Family Doesn’t Get You Killed
Johnny swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears. He looked up and spotted a fire escape ladder, its rusted rungs hanging just above his reach. He hesitated for a split second before jumping, snagging the lowest rung with one hand and hauling himself up. The duffel bag dangled precariously, and he nearly lost his grip.
From below, Mac’s voice cut through the night like a whip.
“Johnny!”
Johnny didn’t look down. He scrambled up the ladder, his knees scraping against metal, the bag banging against his thigh. He reached the roof and rolled over the edge, landing on his back. The stars above him blurred into a mess of light and motion. Now closer to heaven than ever before.
He didn’t have time to catch his breath. Mac was already climbing.
Johnny scrambled to his feet, the gravel on the rooftop crunching beneath his boots.
He looked around wildly. The roof was a patchwork of pipes, vents, and puddles of stagnant water.
A gap between this building and the next yawned wide and dark, impossible to clear.
Mac pulled himself onto the roof, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the city behind him.
He moved slowly, purposefully, his gun held low but ready.
“Nowhere left to go, Johnny,” Mac said.
Johnny backed away, the bag held like a shield. His legs wobbled, and his voice came out shaky.
“Mac, I didn’t mean for it to go down like this. I—I was trying to protect Ma.”
“You think this is protecting her?” Mac said, his tone cold, cutting. “You think running off with fifty large is gonna keep her safe? You’ve just put a target on her back, Johnny. On Carla too.”
Johnny shook his head, his voice rising. “I didn’t have a choice, Mac! Ray’s guys—they said they’d kill her if I didn’t give them the money. What was I supposed to do?”
“You call me,” Mac said. “That’s what you do. You don’t run. You don’t hide. You sure as hell don’t make deals with the kind of scum that’d sell your Ma out for a lousy vig.”
Johnny took another step back.
His heel hit the edge of the roof, and he wobbled.
“I couldn’t call you, Mac,” he said. “You’d kill me.”
Mac sighed, lowering his gun slightly. “I didn’t want to kill you, Johnny. But now? Now you’ve made it real hard for me not to.”
Johnny’s face crumpled, tears streaking through the dirt and sweat.
“I just wanted to make it right,” he said, his voice breaking. “For once, I just wanted to do the right thing.”
Mac stepped closer, his eyes hard.
“You know what the right thing is, Johnny? The right thing is handing me that bag.”
Johnny hesitated, his grip on the bag tightening.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, with a sudden burst of motion, Johnny turned and hurled the bag over the edge.
“No!” Mac shouted, rushing forward.
The bag hit the street below with a dull thud. For a second, neither man moved.
Then Johnny lunged.
Mac saw it coming, sidestepping as Johnny barreled past.
But the momentum carried Johnny too far.
His foot slipped on the gravel, and he pitched forward.
Mac reached out, grabbing Johnny’s wrist just as he toppled over the edge.
“Don’t you let go!” Johnny shouted, his voice raw with panic.
Mac gritted his teeth, the muscles in his arm straining.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” Mac said.
Johnny’s eyes locked onto his, desperate, pleading.
“Because I’m your family,” he said.
For a moment, Mac didn’t move.
The weight of Johnny’s words hung between them, heavy as the bag lying on the street below.
Then Mac let go.
Johnny’s scream was short, cut off by the sickening crunch of impact.
Mac stood there, staring down at the still form below. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Finally, he turned, his shadow stretching long and thin under the glow of the city lights.
“Family doesn’t get you killed,” he muttered, heading for the stairs.
The bag sat on Mac’s coffee table, staring back at him. Fifty grand stuffed into cheap canvas, the threads stretched thin; the zipper frayed. He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid sloshing as he set the bottle down.
The apartment was dark except for the dim glow of a lamp in the corner. Jennifer lounged on the couch, her long legs draped over the armrest. She scrolled through her phone, a cigarette dangling from her lips, the ash perilously close to falling.
“You gonna tell me where you’ve been, or do I gotta guess?” she asked, not looking up.
Mac took a sip of his whiskey, the burn trailing down his throat. He didn’t answer.
“Let me guess,” she continued, her tone light, teasing. “You had to save one of your idiot friends again, huh? Or was it one of your ‘business’ deals going south?”
He set the glass down with a sharp clink; the sound cutting through the quiet. Jennifer glanced up, her expression shifting.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice softer now.
Mac leaned back in his chair, staring at the bag. It seemed heavier than it should, like it carried more than just cash. His mind replayed the sound of Johnny’s scream, the finality of it.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said finally.
Jennifer sat up, tucking her legs beneath her. “Mac, come on. Don’t do that thing where you shut me out. Talk to me.”
He rubbed his temples; the whiskey doing little to dull the weight pressing against his skull.
“Johnny’s gone,” he said, his voice flat.
Jennifer frowned. “Gone how?”
“Gone as in not coming back,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue.
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded, her expression unreadable.
“Did he deserve it?” she asked.
Mac thought about that. He thought about Johnny’s desperation, his stuttered excuses, the way his eyes had pleaded at the end. He thought about the bag lying on the street, and the blood pooling beneath it.
“No,” Mac said finally. “But it doesn’t matter.”
Jennifer lit another cigarette, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating her face. She didn’t push him further. She never did. That was why Mac kept her around—she knew when to stop asking questions.
His phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number. Mac stared at it for a moment before picking it up.
“Yeah,” he said.
A voice on the other end chuckled, low and mean. “Mac. Heard you had a rough night.”
Mac didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The voice belonged to one of Ray’s men.
“You should’ve called us, Mac,” the man continued. “Maybe we could’ve worked something out.”
Mac’s grip tightened on the phone. “I don’t work things out with scum like you.”
The chuckle came again, darker this time. “That’s too bad. Ray’s not gonna like this, you know. Johnny was sloppy, but you? You’re supposed to be better.”
“Tell Ray he knows where to find me,” Mac said, his voice sharp as a razor.
The line went dead.
Mac set the phone down, his hand lingering on it for a moment. He drained the rest of his whiskey, the burn sharper now.
Jennifer watched him, her cigarette smoldering between her fingers. “That was them, wasn’t it?”
Mac nodded.
“What are you gonna do?”
He stared at the bag again, his reflection warped in the sheen of its canvas. Fifty grand. That’s all Johnny had died for. Fifty lousy grand.
Mac stood, grabbing his coat. “I’m gonna finish it.”
Jennifer reached for him, her fingers brushing his arm. “Mac, don’t—”
He turned, his face a mask of cold determination.
“It’s already done,” he said, pulling away.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Jennifer sat back on the couch, exhaling a plume of smoke. She glanced at the bag, then away, as if looking at it too long might curse her.
Mac stepped into the night, the city stretching out before him in shades of gray. He lit a cigarette, the flame casting brief light on his face.
“Loyalty doesn’t keep you alive,” he muttered, the smoke curling around him. “It just makes dying slower.”
The streetlights flickered above, and Mac disappeared into the dark, the bag of blood money and a dead man’s scream following him like ghosts.
And in this city, the ghosts never sleep.
Dark psychological short story collection
- Psychological noir short stories rooted in survival and moral ambiguity
- Characters pushed to the edge of loyalty, violence, and self-destruction
- For readers who crave unflinching literary fiction without clean endings
A collection of dark psychological short fiction focused on endurance, moral fatigue, and the damage that accumulates when survival replaces hope. These stories follow characters navigating addiction, grief, inherited silence, and the quiet consequences of past decisions.
The pieces move nonlinearly, allowing memory and perception to distort reality. This is fiction about negotiating damage rather than escaping it — and living with what remains.
Paperback · 6×9 · 104 pages · ISBN: 979-8348118822
Prefer digital? Buy eBook
“I tried to remember why I’d come. What did I need? My hands fumbled through my pockets, searching for a breadcrumb of purpose. Empty. The middle console offered nothing but old receipts and baby cake napkins until my fingers landed on a for- gotten lottery ticket—a crumpled promise of nothing.”
Books by Ran Kime
