Chapter Three: London’s Underbelly - Alex begins his investigation, navigating the city’s criminal world.

The rain slicked streets of East London gleamed under the sodium glow of streetlights, a labyrinth of shadows where deals were struck and secrets buried. Alex Hawke moved through the alleys of Whitechapel with the ease of a man who’d walked these paths before not as a tourist, but as a hunter. His boots splashed through puddles, the hem of his dark coat brushing against damp cobblestones. The air carried the sour tang of spilled beer and the faint metallic bite of blood, a reminder that this was a place where the city’s pulse beat raw and unfiltered.

Two days had passed since his infiltration of Viktor Sokolov’s penthouse in Singapore, and the intel he’d gathered, a cryptic mention of a “shipment” and a high-stakes poker game had brought him back to London. The listening device he’d planted was feeding audio to a secure server, but so far, it had yielded only fragments: snippets of Viktor’s voice, laced with arrogance, discussing logistics with unknown players. Alex needed more, he needed a name, a location, something to pin down the scope of Viktor’s operation. That meant diving into the underbelly, where information flowed like the Thames—murky, treacherous, and never free.

He adjusted the earpiece tucked beneath his hood, the faint hum of static connecting him to Elena Petrova, who was monitoring from a safehouse across town. “You sure about this contact?” he muttered, his voice low to avoid drawing attention from the drunks staggering out of a nearby pub.

Elena’s reply crackled through the earpiece, her Russian accent sharp with impatience. “Mickey Finch is a weasel, but he knows everyone. If Viktor’s moving something through London, Mickey’s heard whispers, just don’t let him scam you.”

Alex smirked, weaving past a group of men huddled under an awning, their eyes tracking him with suspicion. Mickey Finch was a lowlife fixer, a man who traded secrets for cash and thrived in the gray space between criminals and cops. Alex had dealt with his kind before, the slippery, opportunistic kind, but useful if you knew how to handle them. The trick was keeping them scared enough to talk but not so scared they bolted.

The meet was set for The Black Anchor, a dive bar tucked behind a shuttered butcher shop. Alex pushed through the door, the stench of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey hitting him like a fist. The bar was a dim cave of peeling wallpaper and sticky floors, its patrons a mix of dockworkers, petty thieves, and men who looked like they’d sell their own kids for a hit. A jukebox wailed an off-key rendition of an old punk song, barely drowning out the murmur of deals being hashed out in the corners.

Mickey Finch sat at a booth near the back, his wiry frame slouched over a pint of lager. His thinning hair was slicked back, and his eyes darted like a rat’s, taking in the room. Alex slid into the booth opposite him, keeping his posture relaxed but his senses sharp. “Mickey,” he said, his tone clipped but cordial. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

Mickey’s lips twitched into a nervous grin, revealing crooked teeth. “Alex Hawke. Thought you’d gone soft, mate. What’s a posh boy like you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Looking for answers,” Alex said, leaning forward. He slid a folded stack of pounds across the table, keeping his hand on it. “Viktor Sokolov. He’s moving something big. I need to know what, where, and who’s helping him.”

Mickey’s grin faded, his fingers twitching toward the cash but hesitating. “Sokolov? You’re barking up a dangerous tree, mate. That one’s got tentacles everywhere, the cops, MPs, even the bloody Russians.”

“Then you’d better talk fast,” Alex said, his voice hardening. “Unless you want those tentacles wrapped around your throat.”

Mickey swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He glanced around, ensuring no one was listening, then leaned in. “Alright, keep your knickers on. Word is, Sokolov’s got a deal cooking, something high-tech, not your usual drugs or guns. They’re saying it’s a cyber weapon, some kind of code that can cripple systems. Banks, power grids, you name it. He’s got a buyer lined up, big money, but it’s all hush-hush.”

Alex’s pulse quickened, but he kept his face neutral. Jack Donovan’s intel from the previous night had mentioned a cyber weapon, and now Mickey was confirming it. “Where’s it coming from? And who’s moving it?”

Mickey licked his lips, eyeing the cash. “I don’t know the source could be Eastern Europe, maybe Russia. As for moving it, there’s a crew out of Tilbury Docks. Rough lot, ex-military types. They’re handling the shipment, but I don’t know when or where it’s landing. That’s all I’ve got, swear it.”

Alex studied him, searching for the lie. Mickey’s eyes were wide, his hands fidgety scared, but not hiding much. Alex slid the cash across, but kept his tone cold. “If I find out you’re holding out, Mickey, I’ll be back and I won’t be bringing money.”

Mickey snatched the bills, stuffing them into his jacket. “I’m clean, Hawke. You know me.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, standing. “That’s the problem.”

As he turned to leave, a shadow loomed in his peripheral vision, a hulking figure in a leather jacket, his face scarred and his eyes locked on Alex. The same man from the café in Singapore, the one with the predatory stare. Alex’s hand instinctively brushed the holster beneath his coat, but he kept moving, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. The man followed, his steps heavy but deliberate.

“Elena,” Alex murmured into his earpiece. “Got a tail, remember Scarface from the café.”

Her voice came back, tense but controlled. “Get to the alley behind the bar. I’ll have a car ready in five.”

Alex pushed through the door into the rain, the cold droplets stinging his face. The alley was a narrow chute of brick walls and overflowing bins, the kind of place where bodies disappeared. He quickened his pace, his senses tuned to the footsteps behind him. They were closer now, joined by a second set, two pursuers, maybe more.

He ducked around a corner, pressing himself against the wall, his breath shallow. The scarred man rounded the bend first, a silenced pistol glinting in his hand. Alex moved fast, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the ground. A swift knee to the gut doubled him over, and Alex followed with an elbow to the back of his neck, dropping him to the wet pavement.

The second man was faster, lunging with a knife that gleamed under the streetlight. Alex sidestepped, the blade grazing his coat, and countered with a fist to the man’s jaw. The attacker stumbled but recovered, swinging again. Alex caught his arm, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him against the wall. “Who sent you?” he growled, pressing his forearm against the man’s throat.

The man spat, his eyes blazing. “You’re dead, Hawke, you just don’t know it yet.”

A car screeched to a halt at the alley’s mouth with Elena behind the wheel of a black sedan. Alex shoved the man to the ground, scooping up the dropped pistol as he sprinted toward the car. He dove into the passenger seat, and Elena floored it, the tires squealing as they tore into the night.

“Who were they?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the road.

“Viktor’s muscle,” Alex said, checking the pistol’s clip. “They knew I’d be here. Someone tipped them off.”

Elena’s jaw tightened, “Mickey?”

“Maybe or someone closer.” He glanced at her, the seed of doubt planted. She’d been KGB, tied to Viktor once. Could she still be playing both sides?

They drove in silence, the city blurring past—neon signs, rain-soaked streets, the pulse of London’s underbelly. Alex’s mind raced, piecing together the fragments. A cyber weapon, a crew at Tilbury Docks, and now assassins on his tail. The poker game in Singapore was his next move, but first, he needed to know who was betraying him.

At the safe house, a nondescript flat in Camden, Alex and Elena pored over the intel. She pulled up a map of Tilbury Docks on her laptop, marking potential entry points. “If the shipment’s coming through here, we need eyes on the ground,” she said. “I can reach out to some old contacts.”

Alex nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The scarred man’s words echoed: “You’re dead, Hawke.” Someone was watching, waiting for him to slip. He pulled out his phone, the mysterious message from last night still unread: “The game has changed. Trust no one.”

“Alex,” Elena said, her voice pulling him back. “You’re not telling me something.”

He met her gaze, weighing his options. Trust was a currency he couldn’t afford to spend lightly, but he needed her for now. “I got a message,” he said, showing her the screen. “Anonymous. Could be a warning, could be a trap.”

Her eyes narrowed as she read it, then handed the phone back. “We keep moving. Whoever sent it, they want you rattled. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

He nodded, but the unease lingered. The underbelly of London had given him a lead, but it had also shown him how deep Viktor’s reach went. The poker game loomed, a chance to get closer to the truth or to walk into a trap. Either way, Alex knew one thing: in this game, every move was a gamble, and the stakes were climbing higher by the minute.