The Million Dollar Janitor

Chapter 7 The syndicate's Test

Evan Creed spun toward the crash, gun shaking in his hand. Glass shards glittered on the club floor as men in suits stormed in—five, maybe six, all packing heat. Russo, sprawled by the table with a busted arm, laughed through the pain. “Told you, kid. Council doesn’t play.” His gold chains clinked as he struggled up, smirking like he’d already won.

Evan’s heart slammed. Ricky loomed beside him, bat raised, eyes wide but steady. The back room felt smaller now, walls closing in. Neon lights flickered outside, bass thumping through the chaos. These weren’t street thugs—too sharp, too synced. Syndicate muscle, sent by the council—Voss, Russo, Kane, Elena, or Marcus. Maybe all of them.

“Out!” Evan yelled, shoving Ricky toward the door they’d pried open. A gunshot cracked—wood splintered above his head. He ducked, firing wild with the cop’s gun. The suits scattered, diving behind tables. Evan’s shot hit nothing but air—he wasn’t a shooter, just a janitor with luck running thin.

Ricky swung his bat, smashing a chair into the nearest guy’s chest. The suit grunted, tumbling back. “Move, Evan!” Ricky roared, clearing a path. Evan bolted, boots slipping on spilled drinks. Russo shouted, “Get him!”—voice sharp despite the pain.

They hit the club floor—crowd screaming, running for exits. Evan shoved through, Ricky bulldozing a gap. A suit lunged from the side, gun up. Evan swung his elbow, cracking the guy’s jaw—janitor scrappiness, not skill. The suit dropped, but more came, fanning out like wolves.

“Alley!” Evan yelled, spotting a side door.

Ricky kicked it open, wood splintering. Cold air hit them as they spilled out, trash cans rattling. The suits were

close—footsteps pounding, a bullet zinging past Evan’s ear. He zigzagged, heart in his throat. The gun felt useless—he’d barely hit anything—but he kept it, a lifeline.

They rounded a corner, ducking behind a dumpster. Evan panted, checking Ricky. “You good?”

“Been better,” Ricky grunted, wiping blood from a cut on his arm. “Your gang’s nuts.”

“Not mine yet,” Evan said, pulling the phone. No buzz—just the last text: Eliminate the traitor by dawn. Dawn was close—sky graying already. Russo wasn’t dead, just mad. Traitor or not, Evan had poked the council hard.

Engines growled—two cars screeched into the alley’s mouth, blocking it. Suits piled out, guns gleaming. Evan cursed. “They’re fast.” He peeked—six now, spreading out. No Russo, but these weren’t his style—too quiet, too clean. Another boss’s crew? Voss, maybe—Lila said he ran muscle.

Ricky hefted his bat. “We fight?”

Evan shook his head. “Run smart.” He scanned—fire escape above, rusted but close. “Up there.” He jumped, grabbing the ladder, pulling it down with a screech. Ricky climbed fast, big frame shaking the metal. Evan followed, bullets sparking below. The suits yelled, aiming up.

They hit the roof, rolling behind a vent. Evan’s lungs burned, but he checked the cash-stuffed jacket—still there, with the key and laptop. Syndicate treasures, worth dying for, apparently. Ricky crouched, bat ready. “Now what?”

“Back to Mia,” Evan said. “She’s got answers—files, names. We need a plan.” He led the way, hopping to the next roof—low, flat, littered with junk. The suits hit the ladder, climbing loud. Evan grabbed a loose pipe—old habits—and flung it down. It smashed a guy’s shoulder; he fell, cursing.

They dropped to a side street, dodging late-night stragglers. Evan’s building wasn’t far—three blocks. He pushed harder, Ricky huffing behind. The council knew he’d hit Russo—word traveled fast. Voss’s muscle, Kane’s scheming, Elena’s silence—any could be next. Marcus just wanted the cash Evan carried.

They burst into the lobby, stairs creaking as they climbed. Evan banged on Mia’s door. She yanked it open, glasses crooked, laptop glowing. “You’re loud,” she snapped, they saw Ricky’s blood. “Trouble?”

“Big,” Evan said, shoving in. “Council’s after us. Russo’s alive—hurt, but alive. More guys came—suits, guns.”

Mia frowned, typing fast. “Files say Russo’s flashy—clubs, deals. Voss runs enforcers—those suits fit him. Look.” She spun the laptop—photos, grainy but clear. Voss: short, scarred, hard eyes. “He’s brutal. Likes control.”

Evan nodded, wiping sweat. “Felt like him. Organized. What about the traitor?”

Mia scrolled. “Hale’s note—‘Traitor’s close’—no name. But look here.” A list: council votes on Tommy’s “removal.” Voss and Russo pushed yes; Kane abstained; Elena and Marcus no. “Tommy died after. Someone lied.”

Evan’s fists clenched. “Russo said Hale was weak—bragged about it. Voss sent muscle. Kane’s playing nice—why?”

“Testing you,” Ricky cut in, leaning on the bat. “Seeing if you break.”

Mia nodded. “Files show Kane’s sneaky—owns tech, watches moves. Maybe he wants you alive—for now.”

Evan paced, mind spinning. The council was a mess—Voss and Russo hitting hard, Kane waiting, Elena and Marcus lurking. The traitor could be any—Hale’s killer, Tommy’s too. Dawn loomed—his deadline. “We hit back,” he said. “Small. Smart. Mia, find Voss’s spot—weak one. Ricky, we crash it.”

Mia grinned, cracking knuckles. “On it. Give me ten.” She dug into the laptop, maps popping up. Ricky cracked his neck. “Smashing suits? I’m in.”

Ten minutes later, Mia pointed. “Voss’s warehouse—south side, low guard tonight. Guns, cash—his stash.” Evan checked the gun—two bullets left. “Good enough.”

They moved out, city waking slow around them. The warehouse loomed—gray, quiet, a single truck parked. Evan crept close, Ricky behind. A guard smoked by the door—lazy, alone. Evan nodded; Ricky swung the bat, dropping him silent. They slipped in—crates stacked high, shadows deep.

Voices echoed—two guys, counting cash. Evan peeked—Voss’s muscle, sloppy, distracted. He whispered, “Now.” Ricky charged, bat cracking one’s skull. Evan tackled the other, slamming him into a crate. The guy groaned, out cold. Evan grabbed a bag—cash, guns, Syndicate stuff.

“Easy,” Ricky said, grinning. Then headlights flared—three cars rolled up fast. Suits piled out, more than before. Voss’s voice barked, harsh and close: “Find him! Tear it apart!”

Evan froze. Voss himself—short, scarred, pissed. Dawn was here, and the council wasn’t waiting.