The Million Dollar Janitor

Chapter 8 Power Plays

Evan Creed froze in the warehouse, the bag of Syndicate cash and guns heavy in his hands. Voss’s voice cut through the dawn like a blade—“Find him! Tear it apart!”—sharp, mean, and way too close.

Headlights sliced through the grimy windows, three cars unloading suits faster than Evan could count. Ricky crouched beside him, bat dripping with sweat and a little blood from the guards they’d just dropped. The air stank of oil and danger, and Evan’s heart pounded like it wanted out of his chest.

“Boss man himself,” Ricky whispered, grinning despite the odds. “You pissed him off good.”

Evan peeked around a crate. Voss was there—short, scarred, built like a pitbull with a bad attitude. The council’s muscle king stomped toward the warehouse, barking at his crew. Dawn grayed the sky outside—Evan’s deadline to “eliminate the traitor” hitting hard. He’d raided Voss’s stash, but the traitor hunt was still a mess—Russo, Kane, someone else? No time to guess now.

“Plan?” Ricky asked, gripping the bat like a lifeline.

Evan’s janitor brain kicked in—hide, hit, run. “We split ‘em up. Mess ‘em up. Then bolt.” He pointed to a stack of crates near the back door. “There—lure ‘em. I’ll flank.” He checked the gun—two bullets. Not enough, but it’d do.

Ricky nodded, slipping off silent as a bear could. Evan crept the other way, hugging shadows, the bag slung over his shoulder. Voss’s suits burst in—six, guns out, moving like they owned the place. Evan ducked behind a rusty forklift, watching. Ricky reached the crates and—bam!—kicked one hard. It crashed loud, spilling junk across the floor.

“There!” a suit yelled, and four ran toward the noise. Perfect. Evan circled, heart thumping. Voss stayed by the door, barking orders, a pistol gleaming in his hand. Two suits stuck with him—loyal dogs. Evan crept closer, bottle from the alley still in his pocket. Time to clean house his way.

Ricky popped up, roaring like a madman, and swung his bat. It cracked a suit’s arm—guy screamed, gun clattering. The others fired, bullets sparking off crates. Evan seized the chaos, tossing the bottle at Voss’s goons. It smashed one’s head—glass and blood everywhere. The guy dropped, dazed. Voss spun, snarling, “Creed, you rat!”

Evan dove behind the forklift as Voss fired. A bullet pinged off metal, inches from his face. He popped up, aiming his gun—two shots, make ‘em count. He squeezed—one hit the second goon’s leg, dropping him. Voss ducked, cursing loud enough to wake the docks.

Ricky barreled through, bat swinging wild—another suit went down, out cold. “Evan, now!” he yelled, sprinting for the back. Evan bolted after him, Voss’s shouts chasing them. “You’re dead, kid! Dead!” Bullets zipped past, but the door loomed—freedom, maybe.

They burst outside, dawn light stinging Evan’s eyes. The alley stretched ahead, cars parked tight. Ricky panted, “Where to?”

“Mia,” Evan said, legs burning. “She’s got the files—council’s next move.” They ran, dodging trash and early workers. Voss’s engine roared behind—those cars weren’t quitting. Evan clutched the bag—cash, guns, Syndicate loot. He’d hit Voss where it hurt, but the council wasn’t done.

They hit Evan’s building, stairs groaning under Ricky’s weight. Evan banged on Mia’s door—she yanked it open, laptop glowing, coffee mug steaming. “You’re alive?” she said, then saw the bag. “And rich?”

“Voss’s stash,” Evan said, dumping it on her table. Cash spilled—hundreds, maybe thousands—plus pistols and a ledger. “He’s pissed. Chased us.”

Ricky flopped on her couch, bat across his lap. “Big guy’s got a temper.”

Mia grabbed the ledger, flipping pages. “Dates, deals—Voss’s crew alright. Look—last week, he moved guns to Russo’s club.” She tapped the laptop. “Files match. Russo’s loud, but Voss backs him. Teamwork, maybe.”

Evan frowned, wiping blood from his lip. “Russo bragged—said Hale was weak. Voss sent muscle tonight. Traitor’s one of ‘em?”

“Or both,” Mia said, scrolling. “Hale’s note—‘Traitor’s close.’ Tommy’s hit had Voss’s yes, Russo’s too. Kane sat out. Elena and Marcus said no.” She leaned back. “Kane’s fishy—met you, let you go. Why?”

Evan paced, mind buzzing. “Testing me. Wants me in the game—his pawn, maybe.” The council’s cracks showed—Voss and Russo hitting hard, Kane playing chess, Elena and Marcus waiting. “We need more. Hit ‘em again—smarter.”

Mia grinned, cracking knuckles. “Russo’s club’s locked down now. Voss’s warehouse was easy—next stash is north, old garage. Less guards, more cash.” She pulled a map. “Here.”

Ricky sat up. “Another smash?”

Evan nodded. “Yeah, but quiet. We’re three—council’s got dozens. Mia, you drive. Ricky, muscle. I’ll sneak.” He grabbed a pistol from the bag—full clip this time. “Dawn’s here—traitor’s still out there. Let’s make ‘em sweat.”

They piled into Mia’s beat-up sedan—coffee mugs clunking, bat in the back. The garage was ten minutes north—a dump, windows boarded, one guy smoking outside. Evan slipped out, gun tucked, creeping through weeds. Ricky followed, silent for once. Mia idled nearby, engine low.

Evan peeked—the guard yawned, clueless. He nodded; Ricky swung—bat met skull, quiet thud. Guy crumpled. They dragged him aside, slipping in. The garage stank—grease, smoke, money. Crates lined the walls, cash peeking out. Evan pried one open—more hundreds, some ammo. “Jackpot,” he whispered.

Ricky stuffed a bag, grinning. “Your gang pays good.”

“Not mine yet,” Evan said, checking the phone—no buzz. “Council’s still king.” He grabbed a stack, pocketing it. Mia honked soft—signal clear. They hauled the loot out, piling into the car. She peeled off, tires squealing.

“Two hits in one night,” Ricky said, laughing. “They’ll hate you.”

“Good,” Evan said, leaning back. “Hate’s loud—makes ‘em slip.” He flipped through the ledger—Voss’s sloppy notes, Russo’s deals tied in. “Mia, cross-check this with Hale’s files. Traitor’s name’s here somewhere.”

Back at her place, Mia dove in, laptop humming. Evan paced, Ricky cleaning his bat with a rag. “Got it!” Mia yelled, spinning the screen. “Hale’s last deal—big cash to Elena. Voss and Russo signed off. Kane abstained. Marcus fought it—lost. Next day, Hale’s dead.”

Evan stopped. “Elena? Quiet one?”

“Too quiet,” Mia said. “Files show her moving cash after—offshore, hidden. Voss and Russo took the heat, but she’s clean—too clean.”

Evan’s fists clenched. “She played ‘em. Killed Hale, maybe Tommy too.” The phone buzzed—he yanked it: Traitor’s time’s up. Pick one. Dawn glowed outside—deadline hit.

“Elena,” Evan said. “She’s it. We hit her—hard.

Mia mapped it fast. “Her spot’s downtown—penthouse, fancy. Guards, cameras—tougher than Voss.”

Ricky cracked his neck. “I like tough.”

Evan grabbed the gun, cash, key. “Let’s roll.” They piled back in, city waking around them—horns, coffee shops, normal life Evan didn’t have anymore. The penthouse towered—glass and steel, Syndicate money screaming. Mia parked a block away. “Cameras everywhere,” she said, hooking her laptop to a hotspot. “I’ll loop ‘em—five minutes.”

Evan and Ricky crept close, hoods up. A doorman stood out front—big, bored. Evan nodded; Ricky swung—bat met gut, guy folded quiet. Mia hissed through an earpiece Evan snagged from the stash: “Cameras down. Go!”

They slipped in—lobby empty, elevator sleek. Evan hit the top floor, gun ready. The doors dinged—penthouse stretched wide, all marble and gold. Elena waited—tall, dark hair, dress red as blood. She sipped wine, smiling. “Evan Creed. The janitor king.”

“You killed Hale,” Evan said, aiming. “Tommy too.”

She laughed, soft and cold. “Hale was old. Tommy was nosy. Syndicate needed new blood.” She set the glass down. “You’re late—dawn’s past.”

Ricky stepped up, bat high. “Talk’s over.”

Elena snapped her fingers—doors burst open. Ten suits flooded in—guns, knives, mean stares. “You hit Voss, Russo,” she said. “Impressive. But I’m not them.” She smirked. “Game’s mine now.”

Evan’s stomach sank. Trap—perfect, deadly.