Alias Malik

The kitchen of the safehouse smelled like burnt copper and loud Gary Payton smoke. Sitting atop the white marble counter in his black fur-trimmed jacket, Malik held the Mini Draco flat across his lap, the heavy drum mag clicking into place with a sharp metallic snap. Hood up, mask pinned high over his nose, his eyes were totally cold—no emotion, no hesitation. On the counter beside his black Air Force 1s sat two more Glocks fitted with extended sticks, ready for whatever the night brought. Malik threw up the 800 set with his tatted left hand, letting the camera catch the full picture. Out here, reputation was currency, and 800 didn't trade in small change.