Chapter 8: A hail Mary

Days passed, and I didn't hear from Malik. No emails, no messages, just silence.

I figured he was busy, but deep down, I had a feeling something wasn't right.

Turns out, business hadn't been going well for him. Not at all.

Malik had a serious problem.

Vigo, his supplier, had received an unusually large shipment of cocaine that week, three times more than usual. To move it fast, Vigo pushed the extra weight onto his sellers, including Malik.

Normally, Malik got 1 kilo of coke from Vigo. This time, he was handed 3 kilos and given three weeks to sell it all and return the money. It was an impossible task, but Malik couldn't exactly refuse.

To make matters worse, his usual storage setup wasn't big enough for the extra weight.

Malik had this hole he'd carved out behind a mirror in his bathroom wall, where he kept his supply.

It was clever, small, and just big enough for 1 kilo. But with 3 kilos? It wasn't going to work.

So, he stashed 1 kilo in the hole and hid the other 2 kilos in the ceiling above the bathroom. He figured it was safe enough and planned to sell everything slowly, so he wouldn't draw too much attention.

At first, things went smoothly. Malik moved the first kilo without any issues. But when he went back to the ceiling for more, he cringed.

The 2 kilos he'd hidden there were ruined. Water had leaked from a damaged pipe and soaked the coke.

The plumbing had been faulty for months, but Malik hadn't thought to check.

The pipe only leaks when the water pressure is high, and this time, it has destroyed everything.

The coke was damp, discolored, and smelled off.

Desperate, Malik tried drying it out under the sun and mixing it back together, hoping he could salvage it. But even after all that, it wasn't the same.

He tried selling it anyway, but the complaints started almost immediately.

Customers said the quality was bad.

A few walked away and didn't come back.

In just two days, Malik had barely sold anything.

Panic set in. He started dropping the price, finding new buyers who didn't know him, but even then, people complained. His reputation was on the line, and Vigo's deadline was approaching.

That evening, I got home from work and checked my email. There was a message from Malik.

"Meeting the boss will be delayed," it read. "I have to get myself out of this mess first."

I typed back, "Okay, what's going on? Is there any way I can help?"

Twenty minutes later, he replied, "Can you come over? I can't explain it here, it's not safe."

He sent me an address.

The address Malik sent wasn't too far, about five or seven miles from my house. I grabbed my keys, got on my bike, and hit the road.

The cool breeze brushed against my face, but my mind was anything but calm. Malik's message kept replaying in my head. What kind of trouble was he in?

Was it the police? Did he owe someone? My thoughts were all over the place, trying to make sense of it. And the way he said it wasn't safe to explain over email that just made it worse.

The streets were quiet as I rode along. The houses I passed were nice, with well-kept lawns, clean driveways, and porch lights glowing softly in the evening.

kids were outside, playing on the sidewalks, their laughter echoing faintly.

It was a calm, peaceful neighborhood, the kind of place where you wouldn't expect any trouble.

But no matter how nice everything looked, I couldn't shake the feeling in my gut.

Something about this felt wrong, like I was heading straight into a problem I didn't understand yet.

When I arrived at the address, I spotted Malik right away.

He was leaning on the staircase of an abandoned house, looking tense.

Beside him stood another guy, tall and slim, who gave me a quick nod as I got off my bike.

"I'm Duke," the guy said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

Malik just looked at me, his face serious, like he was carrying the weight of the world.

"Thanks for coming," he said quietly. And in that moment, I knew, whatever this was, it was big.

Malik didn't say much after Duke introduced himself.

He just gave me a quick glance, like he was trying to read my face or make sure I wasn't hiding anything.

His shoulders were tense, and I could tell his mind was somewhere else.

"I had to make sure you were alone," Malik finally said, his voice low.

He looked around like he was expecting someone to jump out of the shadows. "That's why I didn't call you to my place."

"Yeah, I get it," I said, nodding. "What's going on, though? You're starting to worry me."

Malik didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned and started walking. "Come on," he said over his shoulder. "We'll talk at my house."

I followed him, carrying my bike, with Duke walking a few steps behind us. Malik stayed quiet for most of the way, his eyes darting around like he was keeping track of everything happening on the street.

I could feel the tension rolling off him, and it made me uneasy.

"So," I said, breaking the silence, "is this something I should be scared of?"

Duke let out a short laugh, but it didn't sound amused. "Depends," he said, glancing at Malik. "But yeah, things are... complicated."

That wasn't exactly reassuring, but I didn't push.

Malik's house wasn't far, maybe a five-minute walk.

It was a nice, small place, a single story home with a neat yard and a few potted plants on the porch.

It looked like the kind of place someone young would live in, with just enough space to feel comfortable but not too much to manage.

When we got to the door, Malik pulled out his keys and paused.

He looked around again, making sure no one was watching, before unlocking the door and stepping inside.

The smell hit me as soon as we stepped inside, sharp and chemical, almost like Benzocaine pills.

At first, I thought it was that.

My mom uses Benzocaine for her sore throat, so I was familiar with it. But then I glanced at the table and froze.

There it was: cocaine, spread out across the surface, in a mess that looked like it had been handled too many times.

That's when it clicked. This wasn't Benzocaine.

"This is a disaster," Malik Groaned, dropping into a chair with his hands on his head. "Two kilos. Ruined. You know what Vigo is going to do to me?"

I stared at him, "How bad is it?"

Malik sighed heavily, his voice raw with stress. "It's bad. I had to sun dry it and mix it up just to save it.

But now it's a problem. Most of the people who bought it complained, said it wasn't hitting right. Most of them never came back. And I owe Vigo a lot of money for this. The time he gave me to pay him back? Two weeks and three days. That's why I called you both here."

Duke spoke up, leaning against the wall. "What about the ones who didn't complain? What's up with them?"

"Most people don't care," Malik said, rubbing his temples.

"As long as it gets them wasted, they're good.

A lot of them are new to this, so they can't tell the difference between quality coke and this mess.

I glanced at the table, the mess of powder still spread across it. "Yeah, I smelled it when we walked in," I said. "At first, I thought it was Benzocaine pills until I saw this."

That's when an idea hit me.

"If Benzocaine pills smell similar to coke," I said slowly, "why don't we add some to it? It could help with the smell, make it seem more legit."

Duke frowned, thinking it over. "What about the texture and color? The texture isn't bad, but it's not perfect."

"We find something that matches," I exclaimed. "Something white, fine, and close to the texture of coke.

We mix it with Benzocaine, and we've got something that smells, feels, and looks like the real thing."

Malik looked at me, his expression doubtful but curious. "And who do you expect to buy that shit?"

"You said it yourself, newbies can't tell the difference.

We target street parties and nightclubs. The kids there just want to feel something, to fit in. They're not experts."

Malik slumped further into his chair, running his hands through his hair. "I don't know, man. This sounds risky. If someone finds out we've been cutting the product..."

I leaned on the table, meeting his eyes. "What other choice do you have? You've got two weeks to come up with Vigo's money, and this coke is already ruined. It's either this, or you find a way to pay him back some other way."

Duke nodded, backing me up. "He's got a point. We're not dealing with seasoned buyers. These are kids just looking for a high. They won't know the difference."

Malik sat there for a long moment, staring at the table.

Finally, he exhaled sharply and stood up. "Alright, fine. But we need to test this first. If it works, we move forward. If it doesn't..." He didn't finish, but we all knew what he meant.

For the next couple of hours, we brainstormed ideas.

Duke pulled out his phone, scrolling through forums and random sites, looking for anything that could work.

"Look at this," he said, turning the screen toward us. "Baby formula. Specifically Similac Advance. It's white, fine, and light. Almost identical to coke when powdered."

"Baby formula?" Malik Snorted, shaking his head. "That's ridiculous."

"No, it's smart," I said, backing Duke up. "Think about it,

it's easy to get, cheap, and no one would suspect a thing.

We mix it with Benzocaine for the smell, and it'll pass for the real deal."

Malik started walking the room again, his hesitation clear. "If this goes wrong, I'm dead."

"But if it works," Duke said, excitement creeping into his voice, "you're out of this mess. It's worth a shot."

Malik stopped, and looked at us. "Alright," he said finally. "Let's try it. But if it backfires, we're all screwed."