URGENT CLEAN UP IN AISLE D.I.Y.
Not all battles leave you bleeding—some just leave you with D.I.Y. Allen keys and regret.
Dar greeted Sean as he stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Well—look who decided to show up!” She smirked as she used one of Sean’s favourite sayings on him.
Sean padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair sticking up like he’d lost a fight with the pillow. His old university hoodie hung off one shoulder, paint-stained joggers clinging to his calves. The smell of coffee hit him like a slap—blessed, necessary caffeine. “Well, well. Look who’s stealing my lines now.” He yawned, scratching at his ribs, eyes narrowing playfully. “Thought you’d be locked in your office playing on that…thing…instead you’re here looking…annoyingly awake.”
He angled toward the kettle, fingers brushing Dar’s arm as he passed—casual, but deliberate. Touch her too much and she’ll bite. Touch her too little, and she notices that, too.
“Malik already told me we’re heading to buy furniture. Logan already told me I’m on KP. I think I’ll move back home.” He flicked the kettle on, leaning back against the counter. He studied her face—tired, but softer than yesterday. Less like she was waiting for the sky to fall. “You sleep alright? Or did the ghost of paint fumes past keep you up?”
He reached for a mug—the kitten one Pam gave him yesterday. Wish Pam was my mum. Creepy Kennedy. Knock it off.
The kettle clicked off, and he poured, steam curling between them like a question mark. “Because I had dreams about being chased by a giant terracotta door. Swear Pam’s been slipping something into the tea.” He took a sip, black as sin, and winced. “Christ. That’s awful. I’m getting us a decent machine if I have to get dragged to Birmingham today.”
Malik entered the kitchen through the back door, boots leaving faint prints on the tile. He wore a dark grey tee, sleeves stretched tight over his shoulders, rifle case slung across his back like it was part of his spine. The morning air clung to him—cold, sharp. He set the case by the door, eyes flicking to Sean first, then Dar. “Kettle’s too loud. You’re broadcasting to the entire street.” He moved past them, opened the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of water. No hesitation. Drank half of it standing there, throat working. Closed the door with his hip. “Birmingham run’s still on. Truck’s gassed. Logan’s staying here to monitor Berlin comms. We’ll grab something to eat on the way.” He glanced at Sean. “If you’re done flirting Kennedy, then get dressed. We roll in ten.” He grabbed a travel mug and filled it with hot water, dropping in a tea bag. “Morning, Dar.” He smiled.
Dar arched an eyebrow at Malik’s entrance, then at the rifle case he treated like a carry-on. She was dressed in her favourite faded jeans and a blue long-sleeved tee underneath a lightweight fleece vest, hair loose in soft messy curls. The morning light through the window caught the fresh coat of terracotta paint on her office door. “Morning, Malik. You planning to redecorate the furniture store, or is that just your version of a credit card?” She pushed Sean toward the stairs and took a slow sip of her coffee. Black. Bitter. Familiar. A glance at the clock told her 10:17. The truck’s probably idling like a sleeping beast out front. “Hurry up,” she called after Sean as he took the stairs two at a time.
Malik leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Sean disappear up the stairs. The rifle case stayed by the door—close, always. He sipped the tea, his face neutral except for a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Decorating’s your job, Montgomery. I just carry the heavy stuff.” He nodded toward the door. “And make sure nobody walks out with more than they paid for.” He set the mug down and checked his watch. 10:18. The truck had been running since 10:05—he’d started it before coming inside. Engine’s warm. Route’s mapped. No detours unless Sean needs a drive-thru. He glanced at the terracotta door again. Fresh paint smelled like wet clay and something else—memory. Not his, but close enough to feel it. “You riding up front or letting Kennedy navigate? “
Dar set her mug down with a soft clink, already moving toward the hallway to grab her coat from the peg. The worn leather smelled faintly of wood-smoke and last winter’s rain—familiar, grounding. “Shotgun,” she said, her voice light but final. “If I let Sean navigate we’ll end up in a Nando’s arguing over peri-peri heat levels instead of buying bedframes.” She shrugged into the coat, zipping it halfway. Her boots sat by the door—scuffed, steel-toed, perfect for kicking furniture and egos alike.
She paused at the rifle case and glanced at Malik. “You ever think about leaving that thing behind for once? Just walk into IKEA like a normal bloke with a tape measure and a dream?” She didn’t wait for an answer—just pulled the door open, letting in a gust of cold air that smelled of wet leaves and diesel. The truck loomed in the drive, exhaust curling like a smoky signal in the morning chill.
Sean thudded back down the stairs, hoodie half-zipped, phone still in hand. He caught Dar’s “shotgun” and Malik’s silent shrug, and grinned like a kid who’d just nicked the last biscuit. He stepped into the hall, boots clipping the flagstones, and flicked his gaze to the rifle case—then to Malik. “Don’t listen to her, Hawk. You bring the cannon, I’ll bring the allen key. Between us we’ll build a flat-pack fortress and still have change for a hot dog.”
He shoulder-checked Dar as he passed, gently, the way he used to bump her on the range when she finally nailed a drive. “And for the record, I only get lost in Nando’s if the lady’s buying.” The truck idled like a dozing dragon, paint matte-black, cab high enough he had to haul himself up. He yanked the passenger door and paused. “Dar, you’re riding middle. I’m not sitting next to Hawk’s playlist—last time I endured three hours of what I’m pretty sure was a Taliban wedding remix. My ears still bleed when I see a tambourine.” He gestured to the cracked vinyl next to Malik. “Come on, Montgomery. Best seat in the house—close enough to elbow me if I snore, far enough from Hawk’s death stare when I nick his crisps.”
Dar rolled her eyes but climbed up anyway, boots clanging on the running board. She slid into the middle, the vinyl cold through her jeans, and watched Sean swing up into the cab. He claimed the window seat as if it were first class on BA and pulled the door shut with a solid thunk. “Fine. But if you start humming along to anything involving a goat, I’m elbowing you into the gearbox.” She clicked her seatbelt, then reached over Sean to crank the window down an inch—just enough for the diesel and morning air to slip in. Her arm brushed his chest as she pulled back. She didn’t move it away immediately. She glanced at Malik. “Try not to kill anyone before we hit the M5. I’d like to make it to the warehouse without a police escort or a body bag.”
Sean felt the brush of her sleeve linger half a second longer than courtesy required—just long enough for his pulse to kick. He covered it by leaning forward, thumbs dancing over the playlist. “Goat remixes are reserved for the M6 toll, love. Birmingham gets indie sleaze and one carefully curated banger from ‘09.” He hit play, guitar riff filling the cab like cheap aftershave, then slumped back. The bench seat meant her shoulder settled against his ribs whether or not she meant it; he kept his gaze on the windscreen, hyper-aware of every inhale that lifted her jacket against him. Sean raised his voice over the rattle. “Road-trip rules: first person who mentions Calder’s name buys lunch. Second mention pays for petrol. Third gets duct-taped to the roof.”
Malik adjusted the rear-view until it framed the back window—clear exit, no tails. The rifle case wedged behind him like a silent passenger. “Birmingham, no bodies. Copy that.” He flicked the indicator and rolled them down the lane between frost-bitten hedgerows. The cab smelled of cold metal and Sean’s cologne, something citrus trying too hard. Malik kept his eyes on the mirror a beat longer than necessary, watching the house shrink in the glass. If SIBYL’s still sniffing, best we’re moving. Static doesn’t travel well at seventy miles an hour. He eased onto the main road, speed climbing, tyre hum swallowing the guitar riff. His shoulders relaxed a fraction once the first junction vanished behind them. “Indie sleaze’s fine. You start air-drumming, Kennedy, I’m locking the windows and turning the heater to max.”
Sean smirked, catching Malik’s deadpan stare in the side mirror. “Air-drumming’s amateur hour, Hawk. I save the stick work for when it counts.” He let the beat ride, foot tapping discreetly against the firewall. Dar’s hair tickled the corner of his jaw every time the truck swayed; he pretended not to notice, but his left hand found the edge of the seat belt so his knuckles brushed her sleeve—casual, accidental, electric.
Dar let the truck’s rhythm settle into her bones, the diesel vibration a low hum under her ribs. She wedged between them like a bookmark in a story she didn’t ask to star in, but her body found the shape of it easy—shoulder to Sean’s side, knee brushing Malik’s when he shifted. Not flinching, Dar watched the hedgerows blur, the frost still clinging in patches where the sun hadn’t reached. Her fingers tapped once on her thigh, a silent metronome. “Air-drumming’s the least of your worries,” she murmured, eyes still on the road. “Wait till he starts narrating the furniture like it’s a nature documentary. ‘And here, we see the endangered Björksnäs in its natural habitat, easily startled by Allen keys…’” She turned her head just enough to catch Sean’s profile—stubborn jaw, hoodie string chewed between his teeth. Then back to the windscreen. “Seriously though. We’re buying beds, not building a fortress. Try to remember that when you start eyeing up reinforced headboards.”
Sean laughed, the sound ricocheting off the windshield. “Reinforced headboards? Please, Dar, I’m a lover, not a carpenter. Though if you ever want a bespoke swinging setup, I know a guy—” He caught the twitch of Malik’s eyebrow and killed the grin halfway. “—who definitely isn’t me and definitely doesn’t owe me favours.”
The truck hit a pothole; he let the jolt knock his shoulder into hers, soft apology in the contact. His thumb tapped the beat against his thigh, slower now, matching the diesel throb. “Anyway, fortress or not, I’m voting we skip the flat-pack gulag. One look at an Allen key and I start having Cyprus flashbacks—Logan lobbing one like a tomahawk, nearly took my ear off.” He rolled the window down another notch, cold air slicing in. “Besides, beds are personal. Gotta test the bounce, the creak factor, whether the mattress remembers your sins.” He flicked his gaze to her, voice dropping to conspiratorial. “So if you find me lying on a display model humming ‘Testing, testing,’ just know I’m doing due diligence for the team. Strictly professional.”
The truck’s suspension groaned over another frost heave. Malik’s hands rested easily on the wheel, knuckles relaxed but ready. He kept the speed steady, checked his mirrors every ten seconds—a habit older than the diesel stink in his nose. Sean’s chatter ricocheted off the cab walls like 5.56 rounds; Dar’s dry responses landed clean. Malik let it ride. The two of them flanked him like mismatched body-armour plates—one ceramic, one Kevlar, both stopping rounds he didn’t see coming.
He flicked the indicator, slid past a slow-moving caravan, then settled back into lane. His eyes cut to Sean’s reflection, grinning like he’d just breached a door without getting shot. Malik’s mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile the man owned. “Kennedy, you test-spring any display mattress and we’re leaving you zip-tied to it for staff collection. Mark the tag ‘defective’.”
He downshifted early for the upcoming roundabout, engine braking smooth. His voice stayed flat, parade-ground calm. “Dar wants beds, we get beds. No kink labs, no ‘bounce diagnostics’, no war stories for the sales reps. In and out like a midnight exfil—grab flat-packs, pay cash, disappear before the CCTV buffers.”
He eased off the throttle, letting a hatchback merge from the slip road, its indicator blinking like a nervous recruit. The motorway’s grey ribbon stretched ahead, Birmingham’s skyline a smear of glass and steel rising through the winter haze. He felt the familiar pre-op knot—small, tight, useful—then shelved it. “Sean, you’re on trolley duty. Dar picks, you stack. I’ll watch the exits and the till jockeys. Anyone recognizes faces from the news, we ghost. Clear?” He caught Sean’s eyes, held them for a beat—no grin now, just the job. Then, a hint of a smile cracked across his face, gone almost before it formed. “Afterwards, fry-up in the Bullring. My treat. You behave, I’ll even let you supersize the hash browns.”
Dar listened to them volley like it was a sport she’d refereed before. The knot in her chest—tight since the paint dried in Zoe’s room—loosened enough to let air in. She let the silence ride for a beat, watching the city creep closer, all glass and rust and people who didn’t know their names. “Copy that, Hawk. No zip-ties, no CCTV cameos, no mattress misdemeanours. I’ll even keep Sean on a short leash—” She lifted her left hand, two fingers making a lazy collar-and-chain motion in Sean’s direction, then let it drop. “—but if he starts humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’ in the warehouse aisle, I’m abandoning cart and both of you.” She leaned forward just enough to catch Malik’s eye, voice low and steady. “And Malik? If anyone recognises ‘my’ face, you don’t ghost. You walk me straight to the loading bay and we finish the job. I’m not hiding behind cereal boxes like a teenager shoplifting vodka.” Oh God, Pam. Were we really that young and stupid?
She sat back; the seat creaking under her. Her shoulder settled against Sean again, warm through layers of denim and cotton. The city’s dirty skyline swelled to fill the windscreen, mirrors glittering like broken promises. She felt the truck downshift, engine note dropping into a lower, hungrier register, and she closed her eyes for one slow breath—diesel, aftershave, frosty morning, alive.
“Let’s go buy some beds,” she said, quietly enough they almost missed it under the tire hum. “And maybe, just maybe, let the day be about something that doesn’t bleed.”
The truck swung into the car park, tyres crunching over loose gravel and cigarette butts. Malik killed the engine, and the sudden silence hit like a dropped mag—loud in its absence. The diesel tick-tick-ticked as it cooled, steam curling from the bonnet.
Sean pushed the door open, cold air rushing in to replace the cab’s shared warmth. His boots hit tarmac, knees protesting the two-hour sit. He stretched, vertebrae popping like bubble wrap, and surveyed the warehouse looming ahead—corrugated steel painted corporate yellow, windows high and narrow like suspicious eyes. A banner flapped in the wind: WINTER SALE—SAVE UP TO 50%. Behind it, the car park sprawled half-empty, trolleys scattered like abandoned shopping carts after the apocalypse.
“Right then.” He rolled his shoulders, breath misting. “Once more unto the breach.”
Dar slid out after him, boots landing light. She stood for a moment, letting the wind rake through her hair. The air smelled different here—exhaust fumes, fried onions from a burger van two rows over, something chemical seeping from the warehouse vents. Nothing like the frost and diesel they’d left behind. She zipped her jacket higher, eyes tracking the entrance where automatic doors yawned open and shut, swallowing customers and spitting them back out with flat-packs and regret.
Malik locked the truck with a double-tap on the fob, pocketed the keys, and moved past them both. No words, just a head-tilt toward the entrance. The rifle case stayed behind the seat, but his gait didn’t change—measured, alert, scanning exits and sight-lines like the car park might sprout hostiles between the Vauxhalls and Fords.
They crossed the tarmac in loose formation, Sean trailing half a step behind Dar, Malik leading by instinct. The automatic doors hissed open, and the warehouse swallowed them whole.
The noise hit first—an assault of sound that made Sean’s ears ring. Crying children, squeaking trolleys, a tannoy voice announcing deals in a Brummie accent thick as treacle. Then the light: fluorescent strips stretched into infinity, bleaching everything pale and too-bright, shadows banned by corporate decree. The air tasted recycled, warm and stale, tinged with sawdust and something plasticky that clung to the back of his throat.
Aisles stretched ahead like trenches—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living room—each one colour-coded and labelled in sans-serif font large enough to see from space. Families drifted past, pushing overladen trolleys, faces glazed, navigating by laminated maps and sheer determination. A couple argued near the lighting section, voices sharp over pendant shades. Somewhere deeper in, a child screamed, high and piercing, then went silent as if swallowed.
Dar stopped just inside, blinking against the brightness. The enormity of the place pressed down like atmospheric pressure. The truck’s cab had been small, contained, three bodies in warm proximity. This—this was exposure. A thousand eyes could be watching, cameras perched in the steel rafters like digital crows, faces blurred in the crowd that might sharpen into recognition if she held still too long.
“Christ,” Sean muttered beside her, voice low and too-close in the din. “It’s like Ikea had a baby with a logistics depot and neither parent claimed custody.”
Malik’s hand brushed her elbow—brief, grounding—and he nodded toward a bank of trolleys chained near the entrance. “Grab two. Move steady. In and out.” His eyes swept the floor, cataloging exits: fire doors at three and nine o’clock, loading bay somewhere past the bedroom displays, main entrance behind them still belching shoppers.
Sean peeled off to yank a trolley free, metal shrieking as it separated from the line. He spun it with one hand, wheels wobbling, and grinned back at them, pushing the cart to Dar. “One for you.” Pulling the second, he turned around. “Right. Let’s hunt some flat-packs before this place eats us alive.”
Dar drifted toward the bedroom section like a moth to a porch light, Sean and Malik flanking her through aisles lined with staged domesticity—nightstands crowned with artificial succulents, lamps that would never be turned on, duvets smoothed to inhuman perfection. She stopped at a king-size frame, dark wood with clean lines, no fuss. Her hand traced the footboard edge, testing for rough spots. “This one.”
Sean appeared at her shoulder, close enough his breath stirred the flyaway curl near her temple. “You haven’t even sat on it.”
“It’s a bed frame, Kennedy. Wood doesn’t have feelings.”
“No, but your spine does.” He abandoned his trolley, moved around her, dropped onto the mattress like he owned it, arms spread wide in mock surrender. Springs groaned under his weight. He bounced once, testing, then patted the space beside him. “Come on, Montgomery. Due diligence. Can’t buy a bed without the full operational assessment.”
Dar’s jaw tightened, but she sat—carefully, perched on the edge like the mattress might bite. The frame held steady, no wobble. She pressed her palm flat against the surface — professional, clinical. Sean rolled onto his side to face her, head propped on one hand, grin insufferable. “See? Not so bad. Plenty of room for—”
“Finish that sentence and I’m testing the structural integrity of your nose.” But her mouth twitched, betraying her.
Malik stood three feet back, arms crossed, positioned so his peripheral vision covered the main aisle and the approaching sales assistant in a yellow polo. His eyes tracked the assistant’s trajectory, clocked the name tag—KEVIN—and the way Kevin’s gaze lingered half a second too long on Dar’s profile. Malik shifted his weight, subtle, just enough to draw Kevin’s attention away. The assistant course-corrected, suddenly very interested in straightening a nearby price tag.
Sean noticed. He always noticed when Malik moved like that—economical, purposeful, the kind of shift that said keep walking. He sat up, the moment broken, and knocked his knuckles against the headboard. “Solid. No death-rattle. Dar, you want the matching side tables or are we mixing and matching like barbarians?”
Dar stood, smoothing her jeans, not looking at either of them. “Matching. A table and a chest of drawers, each. And don’t call me a barbarian—you’re the one who puts ketchup on scrambled eggs.”
“That’s called flavour, love. You should try it sometime.”
She walked toward the side tables without answering, but her shoulders had dropped, the tension draining like air from a punctured tyre. Sean watched her go, then glanced at Malik, who’d already moved to follow. The sales assistant—Kevin—had vanished into the kitchen section, deterred or reassigned by invisible forces.
Sean rolled off the bed, straightened the duvet out of habit, his hand landing where Dar had been, still warm through the fabric, and grabbed his trolley.
Kevin reappeared, emerging from behind a display of children’s bunk beds with the determined stride of someone who’d just been chewed out by a floor manager. He made a beeline for Dar, clipboard clutched like a shield, smile professionally fixed. “Hiya, can I help you folks find anything today? We’ve got a special on the Malm range, very popular, Scandinavian design philosophy—”
Dar turned, and Kevin’s smile stuttered. His eyes narrowed, just a fraction, head tilting like a dog hearing a whistle only he could register. Recognition flickered—not certainty, but the ghost of it, synapses firing across half-remembered news footage or a social media scroll. His mouth opened, closed. “Sorry, have we—do I know you from somewhere?”
The air in the aisle crystallised. Sean’s hand tightened on the trolley handle, knuckles white against chrome. Malik moved—one step closer, angling his body between Kevin and Dar, blocking the sight-line without seeming to. His face stayed neutral, bored even, but his weight shifted forward onto the balls of his feet.
Dar held Kevin’s gaze, unflinching. Her pulse kicked once, hard, then settled into operational calm. She manufactured a polite, blank smile—the kind that said You’re mistaken, and also I don’t care. “Don’t think so. I’ve just got one of those faces.” Her accent flattened, vowels shifting subtly northward, away from her natural register. “We’re sorted, thanks. Just need to grab the flat-packs and settle up.”
Kevin blinked, the moment fracturing. His smile reassembled itself, less certain now, and he glanced at his clipboard like it might offer answers. “Right, yeah, course. One of those faces. Well, if you need help with anything—”
“We’re good, mate.” Sean’s voice cut in, cheerful and dismissive, its edge sharpened just enough to sound like a warning wrapped in friendliness. “Cheers though.”
Kevin nodded, already backing away, clipboard raised in a half-wave. He retreated into the aisle, swallowed by the fluorescent maze and the hum of commerce.
Malik waited until Kevin turned the corner, then counted three more seconds. His eyes swept the rafters—two security cameras, one dome, one fixed, both angled toward the main walkways. He memorised their positions and calculated the dead zones. When he spoke, his voice was low, meant only for the two beside him. “Loading bay. Now. I’ll settle the bill—you two get the items to the truck.”
“Malik—” Dar started.
“Not negotiable.” His eyes cut to her, flat and final. “Kevin’s going to his manager, his phone, or both. We’ve got maybe five minutes before someone reviews footage. Move.”
Sean didn’t argue. He grabbed the trolley and headed toward the warehouse section, where the flat-packs lived in towering cardboard stacks. Dar followed, her stride measured but quick—not running, running drew eyes—but purpose radiating from her like heat shimmer.
Malik peeled off toward the checkouts, extracting cash from his jacket, already calculating routes and timing. His hand brushed his pocket where the truck keys nested, a habitual check. The rifle case in the cab suddenly felt very far away.
Behind them, near the lighting section, Kevin stood with his phone out, thumb hovering over the screen, frowning at a cached news article he couldn’t quite place.
They moved like a three-person extraction team through hostile territory, except the objective was three flat-pack bed frames, each with a matching bedside table and chest of drawers, and the hostile territory smelled of cinnamon buns and desperation.
Sean navigated the trolley through the warehouse section with the same efficiency he’d trained for clearing rooms—smooth, economical, no wasted movement. Dar read the aisle markers like grid coordinates, calling them out low and quick. “Bay seven, rack three, SKU ending in 4-2-7.”
“Copy.” Sean swung the trolley left, wheels squeaking in protest.
The flat-packs were stacked eight high, each one wrapped in that particular shade of cardboard brown that promised Allen keys and existential dread. Dar grabbed the first box—thirty kilos, awkward distribution—and hefted it with a grunt that was more exertion than strain. Sean caught the other end before she had to ask, and they walked it to the trolley in synchronised steps, the box settling with a hollow thump.
“Second one.” Dar was already moving, Sean matching her rhythm. Lift, pivot, lower. Twelve seconds total. They’d cleared IEDs slower.
Once all the packs were loaded, the trolleys groaned under the weight but held. Sean checked the load distribution with a critical eye, shifted one box on Dar’s trolley three inches left. “Balanced. Let’s move.”
They hit the loading bay entrance as Malik appeared from the checkout lanes, receipt already folded into his jacket pocket, cash transaction complete and anonymous. He didn’t break stride, just angled toward the external doors and keyed the push-bar with his elbow.
Cold air slapped them. The truck sat thirty meters across the car park, exactly where they’d left it, nose pointed toward the exit. Malik had parked it that way. He always did.
“I’ll bring the truck round,” Malik said, already moving.
“Negative.” Dar’s voice stopped him. “Cameras on the loading bay. We walk it out like normal punters. Slow is smooth.”
Malik’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. She was right. Three people sprinting to a truck with furniture looked like theft. Three people walking with purpose looked like Saturday.
They crossed the car park in formation—Dar and Sean on their trolleys, Malik ranging slightly ahead, scanning. An elderly couple loaded bags into a Micra. A teenager vaped beside a Corsa, scrolling on his phone. Normal. Civilian. Safe.
Once the back doors opened, Sean climbed on first, Malik passing him boxes from below. Each one slid into place with the precision of Tetris played by people who’d packed supply drops under mortar fire. Dar stood watch, positioned so she could see both the store entrance and the car park access road, hands loose at her sides.
“Last one.” The final flat-pack thudded home. Sean jumped down, and Malik slammed the doors closed, checking the latch twice. Muscle memory from convoys where an unsecured load could mean disaster.
They were in the cab in under ten seconds. Malik turned the ignition, let the engine catch and settle before pulling out. No squealing tires, no drama. Just three people leaving a furniture store on a Saturday morning, completely unremarkable except for the way they moved—like a unit, like a weapon, like something that didn’t quite belong in the fluorescent mundanity of retail commerce.
Sean exhaled, long and controlled. “Well. That was bracing.”
“Kevin’s going to be chewing on that for a while.” Dar’s voice was flat, assessing. She pulled out her phone, opened the browser, and cleared the history out of habit even though she had searched nothing.
Malik’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, watching the store recede. “We’re clear. But we don’t come back here. Not this location.”
“Agreed.” Dar pocketed her phone. “Next time we need furniture, we hit the one in Solihull.”
“Next time we need furniture,” Sean said, “we’re stealing it. This shopping lark’s too stressful.”
Nobody laughed, but the tension bled out of the cab by degrees, replaced by the familiar rhythm of the road and the knowledge that they’d just executed a flawless tactical withdrawal from a Swedish furniture warehouse. The absurdity of it sat unspoken between them—all that training, all those years, deployed in the service of buying beds.
Dar stared out the window at the grey sprawl of retail parks and roundabouts. Somewhere behind them, Kevin was probably still trying to place her face, scrolling through memories that would never quite resolve. She’d been careful. They’d all been careful.
But careful had limits, and limits had consequences, and consequences had a way of finding you in the lighting section of a furniture store on a Saturday afternoon when all you wanted was a decent night’s sleep and a headboard that wouldn’t crack under pressure.
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