The sodium lights cast sickly yellow pools across the empty parking lot of Banjica Sports Center. I checked my watch again - 11:47 PM. The meet was set for midnight, but my old police instincts had me arriving early to scope the territory.

  A cool autumn breeze rustled through the leaves of the surrounding trees, carrying with it the distant thump of music from the pub where United Force held court. Even from here, I could make out occasional bursts of football chants and drunken shouting.

  Boban from Violent Crimes owed me big time after I'd helped him crack that series of assaults last year. Still, I felt guilty about pushing him to arrange this meet with his undercover guy. "You're putting both of us at risk," he'd hissed over the phone. "If anyone finds out I helped set this up..."

  He was right, of course. Goran would have my head if he knew I was here. But something about this whole situation felt off - too neat, too convenient. Like someone was laying out breadcrumbs for us to follow, and I needed to know why.

  A car engine rumbled in the distance. I tensed, moving closer to the center of the lot where the light was better. The sound grew louder, then cut off. Footsteps crunched on gravel.

  A figure emerged from the shadows - young guy, maybe early twenties, with the typical skinhead uniform: bomber jacket, combat boots, head shaved clean enough to reflect the parking lot lights. His face was set in a permanent scowl.

  "Are you Petar?" I kept my voice low and steady, professional. "Listen, I'm sorry to set things up this way, but I really need some inform-"

  Movement caught my eye - shadows detaching from the darkness between parked cars. My heart rate spiked as I registered multiple figures closing in. Everything in me screamed to run, but my feet felt frozen to the asphalt.

  Seven of them. All built like brick walls, carrying baseball bats that gleamed dully in the dim backlight. They moved with the practiced coordination of people used to violence, spreading out to cut off any escape routes.

  I reached for my phone, but never made it. The first blow caught me in the back of the knees, buckling my legs. I heard rather than saw Petar go down beside me with a muffled grunt. The world tilted sideways as something hard cracked against my temple.

  Stars exploded behind my eyes. I tried to curl into a defensive ball, police training kicking in too late. Boots connected with my ribs. Each impact sent fresh waves of pain shooting through my body.

  My magical phone buzzed frantically in my pocket, sensing the danger, but I couldn't reach it. The screen's glow leaked through the fabric, drawing a grunt of surprise from one of my attackers.

  "What the fu-"

  Another blow cut off my awareness of anything else. The last thing I registered was the cold press of asphalt against my cheek and the copper taste of blood in my mouth. Then darkness swept in like a tide, dragging me under.

  The parking lot lights blurred and stretched into strange patterns. Some distant part of my brain noted that this wasn't how I'd planned for the evening to go. Goran was going to kill me - if these guys didn't do it first.

  Everything faded to black.

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  My head throbbed with each heartbeat as consciousness crept back. The sticky floor beneath my cheek smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. I tried to move and immediately regretted it - every muscle screamed in protest.

  Through swollen eyes, I made out boot-clad feet forming a circle around me. The fluorescent lights overhead stabbed at my retinas, making my vision swim. Somewhere to my left, Petar let out a low moan.

  "Who are you?"

  The voice didn't match what I expected from a hooligan hangout. Clear, precise, almost academic. I rolled my head toward the sound, fighting down a wave of nausea.

  He perched on a barstool like a bird of prey - skinny frame draped in an oversized black hoodie, thick-rimmed glasses reflecting the bar's harsh lighting. Dark, greasy hair fell across his forehead as he took a deliberate sip from his Coke. Everything about him screamed computer nerd, except for the cold calculation in his eyes.

  I worked my tongue around the blood pooling in my mouth. "Just a guy looking to make some money on football bets." My voice came out raspy, throat raw from screaming. "Wanted inside info on Rad's next few matches."

  The silence stretched out, broken only by the quiet hum of the beer fridge and Petar's labored breathing. The nerd - clearly the brains of this operation - studied me with the detached interest of someone examining an interesting bug. He took another careful sip of his Coke, placed it precisely on a coaster. Than he gave a slight nod.

  Pain exploded across my kidney as the heal connected. I curled instinctively, trying to protect my vital organs as kicks rained down from multiple directions. Each impact sent fresh waves of agony through my already battered body.

  Another small gesture from the nerd and the assault stopped as suddenly as it began. I lay gasping, tasting fresh blood.

  Through the fog of pain, my brain raced. This guy didn't fit the profile of your typical United Force member. The careful speech, the way he commanded respect despite his appearance, the obvious higher education - something wasn't adding up. Either the hooligan hackers were far more sophisticated than we'd thought, or...

  I caught movement in my peripheral vision - two more skinheads dragging Petar to his feet. The undercover cop's face was a mess of blood and bruises, but his eyes met mine briefly. The fear I saw there told me everything I needed to know about our chances of walking out of here alive.

  "Now, shall we move on to more pressing matters?" nerds voice remained businesslike.

  "Wait, wait!" Petar called out as two thugs yanked him upright. He thrashed against their grip. "Trouble, please, we can work this out!"

  So the nerd was called Trouble I thought. Though name for someone that skinny.

  "Stinking rat," Trouble got close to Petar's face sniffing theatrically. "You know how I feel about rats." He turned to me, lips curling into a thin smile. "And I must thank you. You helped smoke him out quite nicely."

  He turned back to Petar his nose almost touching Petar's bloodied cheek.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Thanks for making this easy." Trouble's voice carried none of the street thug's usual swagger. He spoke like someone discussing quarterly earnings. "Our friend at the precinct was quite excited to share the details of your little rendezvous."

  Petar thrashed against the iron grip of his captors. "Trouble, listen—"

  "No, you listen." Trouble adjusted his glasses with precise, deliberate movements. "I've had my suspicions for months. The way you always seemed to know which raids to skip, how certain sensitive operations got compromised." He tilted his head, studying Petar like a fascinating specimen. "But proof? That was harder to come by. Until tonight."

  My whole body screamed as I tried to shift position. The movement drew Trouble's attention, his eyes flickering to me before returning to Petar. I'd seen that look before - in interrogation rooms, in dark alleys. The look of someone who'd already decided how this would end.

  "You don't understand," Petar gasped. Blood trickled from his split lip, spattering the dirty floor. "I can explain—"

  "There's really nothing to explain." Trouble's voice remained eerily calm. He gave another of those small, precise nods. "Take him to the back."

  The skinheads dragged Petar toward a door behind the bar. His heels scraped against the floor as he struggled. "Wait! Please! I have information—"

  The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off his words. I closed my eyes, knowing what would come next. The muffled sounds that followed confirmed my worst fears - dull thuds, a choked scream, cracking, silence.

  My stomach churned, partly from pain, partly from guilt. I'd gotten Petar killed. Whatever game these people were playing, it went far beyond football hooliganism. The precision of it all - the insider at the police, the technical expertise, the clinical violence - spoke of something much more organized.

  The door creaked open again. Two men emerged, baseball bats dark with fresh stains. They moved with military efficiency, taking up positions around me. No swagger, no posturing.

  Trouble's shoes appeared in my field of vision - expensive leather sneakers, latest Nike's. "Now then." He crouched down, bringing his face level with mine. "Let's discuss why you're really here. Something about a certain... security breach, perhaps?"

  I remained silent, deliberately avoiding Trouble's gaze. After a few seconds, he let out a disappointed sigh and nodded.

  Steel-toed boots crashed into my back and stomach again. The world dissolved into pure agony, each impact sending fresh waves of pain through my already battered body. I tried to curl up, to protect my vital organs, but hands grabbed my shoulders, pinning me in place.

  "Shit! Yes! Stop!" The words tore from my throat before I could stop them.

  The assault ceased immediately. Through the haze of pain, I saw Trouble make that precise little gesture again. His minions stepped back, but stayed close enough to resume their work at a moment's notice.

  "There now." Trouble took another sip of his Coke, the ice cubes clinking against the glass with deliberate clarity. "Since we're being honest with each other, let me share something with you." He set the glass down, adjusting it until it sat perfectly centered on the coaster. "My associates and I recently took on an interesting contract. Very specific parameters, very generous compensation."

  I spat blood onto the floor, trying to focus through the throbbing in my head.

  "Who contracted you?" I managed to croak out.

  "Oh, the usual setup," Trouble waved his hand dismissively. "Anonymous dark web contract, bitcoin payment. Though," he pursed his lips thoughtfully, "I'm still on the fence about that last part. Not entirely convinced about where cryptocurrency is headed, value-wise."

  "The job was quite straightforward, really." He continued while pulling out a cloth and began cleaning his glasses. "Acquire certain files plus a decryption key." The lenses caught the harsh overhead light as he inspected them. "I assume, since you're here, you're familiar with what I'm talking about?"

  One of the skinheads shifted his weight, metal bat tapping against his leg. The threat was clear - answer correctly or face the consequences.

  I nodded.

  "The client provided very specific tools for the job." Trouble's voice took on a lecturer's tone. "Quite sophisticated. Nothing like the usual exploits we work with. They also mentioned something rather curious." He leaned forward slightly. "They said we needed to be careful because the files were 'magical.'"

  A snort came from one of the thugs. "Magical fairy queen-"

  The sharp crack of a hand connecting with the back of his head cut off the rest of his comment. Trouble's expression never changed, but something dangerous flickered behind those thick lenses.

  "Now," he said, voice soft but carrying clearly in the sudden silence, "I consider myself a rational man. I deal in code, in systems, in predictable patterns of ones and zeros." He tilted his head slightly. "But the speed with which these programs worked, the way they bypassed security that should have been impenetrable..." He trailed off, studying my face. "Perhaps you could enlighten me about the more... esoteric aspects of this situation?"

  The question hung in the air like a blade. I could feel blood trickling down my side, soaking into my shirt.

  "Did you... deliver everything to them?" I managed through gritted teeth.

  "But of course," Trouble smiled, his voice dripping with false courtesy. "All the files, encryption key, scanning logs - everything they asked for. I am, after all, a man of honor." With a huge grin he tapped the laptop beside him on the bar. "Though naturally, I kept copies. Now, about that magical element you were going to explain... and how to decrypt these files?"

  "Look, I'm just the muscle," I wheezed. "I don't know anything about decryption or-"

  I didn't get to finish. The thugs' boots made sure of that.

  Roughly two minutes into the beating, through waves of pain, I heard tires screeching outside. The boots stopped their methodical work on my lower back. Trouble's voice cut through the fog in my head, sharp with alarm.

  "What the-"

  I lay face-down on the sticky floor, cheek pressed against spilled beer, head turned toward the entrance. The door burst open with enough force to crack the wall. My battered brain registered expensive suits, sleek and dark, before the unmistakable silhouettes of Kalashnikovs filled the doorway.

  No warnings. No demands. No movie-style threats.

  Just the deafening thunder of automatic fire and the acrid smell of cordite.

  The first burst caught one of my tormentors square in the chest. He toppled forward, a mountain of muscle and tattoos crashing down onto my back. The impact drove what little air remained from my lungs. My vision swam, darkness creeping in at the edges.

  Brass casings tinkled against the floor like deadly wind chimes. Screams mixed with the rhythmic bark of the rifles. Glass shattered. Someone gurgled their last breath nearby.

  Through the chaos, a strangely detached part of my mind noticed how professionally the shooters moved. No wasted motion. No hesitation. The kind of efficiency that comes from practice, not movies.

  The dead skinhead's weight pressed me into the floor. Blood - his or mine, I couldn't tell - soaked into my shirt. The darkness at the edges of my vision grew deeper, more insistent.

  My last coherent thought before consciousness slipped away: I couldn't have asked for better cover. The dead man sprawled across me would surely be enough to keep the attackers from noticing me.

  Then the darkness won, and I fell into it gratefully, leaving behind the smell of gunpowder and death.

  Consciousness returned like a bad hangover - all throbbing pain and disorientation. Through blood crusted eyes, I caught glimpses of two figures in dark suits moving with military precision. They gathered all laptops, computers and phones they could find, including Trouble's precious machine from the bar. No words, just efficient movement. Professional. Dangerous.

  The sound of their footsteps faded. A car door slammed outside, followed by the growl of a powerful engine accelerating into the night. My muscles screamed as I pushed against the dead weight pinning me down. The skinhead's body rolled away with a wet thud, leaving me gasping in a pool of cooling blood.

  Standing took three attempts. My ribs protested every movement, and my left knee threatened to buckle. The bar looked like a war zone - bodies sprawled across sticky floors, blood mixing with spilled beer and shattered glass. Trouble lay crumpled behind the bar, his glasses cracked and askew, that clinical intelligence forever erased from his eyes.

  The first wail of police sirens echoed in the distance. I stumbled toward the entrance, using tables for support. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through my battered body. The door hung crooked on its hinges, cool night air washing away the stench of death and gunpowder.

  I peered out into the darkness. Empty. The killers had vanished like ghosts, leaving only brass casings and corpses as proof they'd ever existed. The sirens grew louder - multiple units converging on the location.

  My car sat across the parking lot, a hundred meters that might as well have been a marathon. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself into a shambling run. Each impact of foot against pavement sent jolts of agony up my spine.

  I fumbled with my keys, dropping them with a clatter before retrieving them with trembling fingers. Finally managing to unlock the car, I collapsed into the normally comfortable seat that now felt like an unyielding stone slab.

  As I pulled away just before frist police car arrived, trying to look casual despite my thundering heart, one thought kept circling through my pounding head: Those weren't random gangsters or rival criminals. This was what it looked like, a professional clean up.