A Clean Exit
April 20, 2025
Clyde Rourke didn’t usually get nervous before a job. But something about the way the rain kept tapping the windshield like it had a warning to deliver—it bothered him.
“You sure about this guy?” he asked from the driver’s seat.
Nico was in the back, loading rounds into a 9mm. “Knox? Yeah. Ex-military, keeps his head down. Works clean.”
Clyde glanced in the rearview at their newest crew member: tall, quiet, sunglasses at night. Just the kind of guy who didn’t ask questions—and usually meant trouble.
They were about to knock over Fulton’s Pawn, a front for dirty cash pickups. No cameras inside, one old man behind the counter, and $200k stashed in the safe every Monday night.
Easy. Supposedly.
At 2:12 a.m., they pulled into the alley behind Fulton’s. Clyde kept the engine running, fingers drumming on the wheel. Nico and Knox moved fast—masks on, door pried open, in and out.
Three minutes.
Clyde was already pulling out when the back door banged open and Nico shouted, “Go!”
They piled into the car, and Clyde floored it.
“What happened?”
Nico was panting. “Knox hit the old man.”
Clyde cursed. “He said no violence. Just a scare.”
“He said the guy reached under the counter.”
“Did he?”
Knox didn’t answer.
Clyde’s gut twisted.
The next morning, it was all over the news.
“Pawn Shop Owner Dies in Armed Robbery”
No mention of stolen money. Just a bleeding widow on camera saying, “They didn’t even take anything.”
Clyde stared at the TV, heart hammering. “We grabbed the cash. I saw it.”
Nico frowned. “I… I thought we did.”
“You handed me the bag. Where is it now?”
They both turned to Knox’s room.
It was empty.
Clyde spent the rest of the day running down every lead. Knox’s ID was fake. No social. No plates. Like he vanished.
By nightfall, Nico was jumpy. “You think he set us up?”
“No,” Clyde muttered. “Worse. I think he flipped.”
Nico paled. “You think he was undercover?”
“If he was, we’re already burnt.”
At midnight, Clyde got a text.
Unknown Number: Meet me at Pier 19. Come alone. Bring Nico if you want. But no guns.
It was signed:
K
The pier was dead quiet. Fog rolled in thick, cloaking the docks in a silver mist. Clyde kept his coat zipped, hand on the grip of his backup Glock.
Knox stood at the end of the pier, coat fluttering in the wind. He held nothing—no bag, no badge.
“Where’s the money?” Clyde called out.
Knox didn’t answer.
“Was this all a setup?”
Knox shook his head. “I wasn’t a cop. I was a job.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I was hired to kill someone. The robbery was just the cover.”
Clyde’s blood ran cold. “The old man?”
“No.” Knox looked straight at him. “Nico.”
Clyde turned just in time to see the flash.
A gunshot echoed over the water.
Nico dropped like a sack of bricks.
Clyde stood frozen. “What the hell did he do?”
Knox’s voice was calm. “Killed a girl. Fifteen. Back in Detroit. Witness in the wrong alley. Then skipped town.”
“You were sent to settle it?”
Knox nodded. “Someone paid for justice. Quiet, clean. No trial. Just balance.”
“And the money?”
Knox tossed a small black duffel to Clyde’s feet. “Yours. You did the job clean. No blood on your hands.”
Clyde looked down at Nico’s body. “That’s not how this was supposed to go.”
Knox turned, walking into the fog. “It never is.”
Clyde didn’t call the cops.
He dumped Nico in the river, took the money, and disappeared by sunrise.
Three months later, he got another message.
New Job? Same pay. Same rules. You don’t ask why. You just drive.
Clyde stared at it for a long minute.
Then he typed one word:
“When?”