Gold & Sand

"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine..."

Knock! Knock!

The sharp sound of a truncheon rapping against the cell bars broke Matthew's focus mid-push-up.

"Matthew Smith!" the prison guard barked.

Matthew paused, caught his breath, and stood up. "Yeah," he replied, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he straightened his posture.

"Let’s go," the guard ordered, unlocking the cell door.

Without a word, Matthew walked toward the open door. As he stepped out, a chorus of whistles and crude remarks erupted from his cellmates. He ignored them. He had learned long ago that responding wasn’t worth the effort. Today, more than ever, it didn’t matter—because today was different. Today was his last day in this hellhole.

The guard locked the cell behind him. "Follow me," he instructed.

Matthew fell in line behind the guard, walking down the dimly lit corridor lined with barred cells. Jeers followed him with every step, but he kept his eyes forward, focused. He’d never cared much for their taunts, and today, they were nothing more than background noise. The only thing that mattered now was that he was walking out of this prison—for good.

After months of negotiations, Matthew had secured his parole. The deal was simple: cooperate with the police and help them take down the head of the Middlesbrough mafia. In exchange, he’d get his freedom, but it came at a cost he wasn't yet fully prepared to pay.

Three years earlier, he had been the one in charge, leading a small but ruthless gang in the same town. His arrest for drug trafficking had been inevitable, but even then, he hadn’t expected to turn on the streets he once controlled.

As they walked, the memories came flooding back—one night in particular, the night everything had unraveled.

---

It had been a stormy night, rain pouring down in relentless sheets, as Matthew oversaw the biggest deal of his career. From the backseat of his sleek black Mercedes CLA 250, he stared through the rain-soaked window at the nearly deserted road. Only a few scattered figures and passing cars braved the downpour.

"Boss," the driver called over his shoulder.

"Speak," Matthew replied, his eyes still scanning the wet streets.

"We’re almost there. Just a few more minutes."

"Good," Matthew said, his voice disinterested, though tonight’s deal was anything but ordinary. If it went smoothly, he would double his territory, a move that would solidify his dominance in the city’s underworld. 

Fifteen minutes later, the car came to a stop. The driver got out, rushed around to Matthew’s door, and opened it with a low bow, raising an umbrella to shield his boss from the rain.

Matthew stepped out, his black boat shoes splashing into a shallow puddle. His men, dressed in black suits and armed, formed a protective barrier around him. They moved in practiced synchrony—two in front, two behind, and one at each side—as they made their way toward the rendezvous point: a dimly lit shed at the edge of town.

A black Volvo was parked outside the shed, flanked by four men, all dressed in matching black suits. Another black van sat idling behind them. As Matthew and his crew approached, the door to the Volvo swung open, and a man stepped out—someone unfamiliar.

Matthew’s eyes narrowed as the man approached. He was pale, with jet-black hair that hung just past his neck. His features were sharp, almost ethereal, and though he had an Asian look, something about him was distinctly European.

‘Is he Chinese?’ Matthew wondered, but he pushed the thought aside. The man’s appearance didn’t matter. The deal did.

"Where’s the money?" Matthew asked, hands casually resting in his pockets.

The pale man whistled, and his men brought forward four heavy briefcases. Matthew watched, unimpressed, as they set them down on the wet pavement.

"There’s sixteen million dollars in each," the man said, his voice deep and authoritative, though his accent was unfamiliar.

Matthew’s men approached, unfurling a large plastic sheet before opening the briefcases and dumping the money onto the ground. A mountain of cash lay in front of them, enough to change the lives of everyone in the city if it fell into the right—or wrong—hands.

Matthew crouched down, inspecting the money with his tattooed fingers, flipping through the stacks. After a few moments, he stood and gave the nod. "It’s good. Load it up."

His men moved swiftly, gathering the cash. Meanwhile, one of his crew began opening the shed, revealing a single forklift parked inside, carrying the shipment of drugs.

"Here’s your product," Matthew gestured toward the forklift.

The pale man stepped forward, pulling a pocketknife from his jacket. He sliced open one of the packages and dipped a finger inside, testing the quality. His expression darkened as he sniffed the powder.

"The quality’s off," he said flatly, shaking his head.

Matthew frowned, stepping closer. "That’s high-grade stuff."

"Give the money back," the man demanded, his voice calm but firm.

Matthew's patience snapped. "You’ve gotta be kidding me!" He ripped off his sunglasses, revealing piercing navy-blue eyes filled with rage. "That product’s fine, and this deal is done!"

In an instant, the pale man pulled out a gun and pressed it to Matthew’s head. "Hands in the air!" he shouted. His men followed suit, drawing their weapons and aiming at Matthew's crew.

Matthew raised his hand to stop his men, but tension hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Before he could respond, the sound of sirens and shouting filled the shed. Police swarmed the area, weapons drawn. 

The man behind Matthew was calm, almost too calm, as chaos erupted around them. His grip tightened on Matthew’s neck as shots rang out, Matthew’s men falling one by one under the hail of bullets.

‘What the hell is happening?’ Matthew’s mind raced as he was dragged behind the forklift. The pale man remained cool, not reacting to the firefight around them.

When the dust settled, the police moved in, securing the scene. Matthew stared in disbelief as the pale man holstered his gun and walked calmly toward the police.

"Agent Payne," one of the officers called, and the pale man turned, flashing his badge.

Matthew’s blood boiled. He had been set up.

The agent turned toward him, their eyes meeting across the chaos. In that moment, Matthew swore vengeance.

---

Back in the present, Matthew clenched his fists as he followed the guard.

"Agent Payne..." he muttered under his breath, the name stinging like poison. 

His time in prison might be over, but he knew what came next. He would find Payne—and make him pay for every last betrayal.