by Naomi West
But I push those thoughts out of my head and continue on, walking along the blacktop of the parking lot, my shoes clicking against the asphalt as I proceed towards the warehouse. Arriving at a steel door with a push-bar handle that crosses over it, I open it and step onto the warehouse floor. There's nothing there but rows and rows of metal shelves under high ceilings packed with bags of concrete, power tools, and various other construction equipment. A pair of forklifts is parked in one corner, and a few small construction vehicles, whatever is big enough to fit inside, are parked on the other side of the warehouse floor across from them. Off on the other side of the floor, I can see lights illuminated at the end of a hallway, and I assume that this is where Iwan is.
I walk slowly through the rows of shelves, as though I'm trespassing. Reaching the hallway, I move down it, arriving at a turn that leads to a smaller storage area. Though the door I can hear murmuring and immediately pick out Iwan’s low voice among the others. The floor of the warehouse at my back, my skin crawls slightly, as though I can sense that someone is lurking behind me. I rush to the door and open it slowly, chastising myself for acting like a little child running up the basement stairs, fearful of a monster chasing me and grabbing at my ankles. I open the door quietly and step into the smaller storage area.
"You'll find that it's all here," says Iwan, his bassy voice carrying through the room.
There are more shelves in this area, and I can't see Iwan and whoever he's talking with. I hold still for a moment, listening in, not wanting to interrupt something important.
"Of course I trust you, Iwan," says another man, his accent hard to place, though I guess he's from somewhere in Southeastern Europe. "There's no need for any counting, be it money or product."
Product? I wonder. I’m sure that they're likely talking about construction equipment of some kind, but hearing it discussed in such terms is strange to hear.
"That is good to hear, Alex. I'd like to think that after ten years of working with one another, there would be some level of trust between us."
"It's the least we can do for one another," said the other voice, which I assume belongs to a man named Alex.
The sense of dread returns. I know that I'm expected here, but something tells me that this is a conversation that I shouldn't be hearing. Dismissing these thoughts as silly paranoia, I continue along the border of the room, staying behind the shelves just in case.
"Then let us discuss prices," says Iwan. "As you well know, we've had some …incidents with getting the product into the country as of late."
"By ‘incidents' you're referring to the rats in your organization?"
"Unfortunately, yes. We did have a little bit of a …loyalty problem recently, but all of the issues have been taken care of."
"That is good to hear, but I have to admit, it does give me a slight feeling of hesitancy doing business."
"An unfounded feeling," says Iwan. "I run a very tight organization, but unfortunately situations like those with the young men in question are part-and-parcel of this business. You, as well as anyone else, should know this."
A silence hangs for a moment.
"Your point is made, but in the future, I ask that you keep the subject of my son out of our negotiations."
"I simply wish to make the point that issues of loyalty can happen to the best of us," says Iwan, his tone smooth and conciliatory.
"Yes, yes," says Alex. "Let's drop it and get down to the matter at hand."
I knew then and there that, whatever they were talking about, it wasn't simply construction equipment. Everything about their conversation hinted that they were discussing something illegal. But I'm still expected to show up and I can't simply turn around now and leave. Plus, I figure that my nerves are getting the better of me and that I must be misinterpreting the topic of conversation. Still, I walk with caution.
Sidling along the shelves, stepping quietly, I approach the direction of Iwan and the other man's voices. And once I reach the end of the shelf and take a peek around it, I can't help myself from taking in a sharp gasp.
I can't believe what I see.
It's Iwan, all right. He's standing in the middle of the open space in the room, as well-dressed as ever, a group for four tough-looking men in casual but expensive clothes behind him. Standing across from Iwan is the man who I assume is Alex, a tall, lanky man in a green, silk button-up with a white tie and a pair of jet-black dress pants, gaudy jewelry on his fingers, and tattoos snaking up his forearms. He has his own compliment of men, all young-looking with sneering faces and tight, coiled-up body language, as though they're itching for a fight.
And on their hips are the dark, unmistakable shapes of pistols.
I stand stone still, scanning the room more from my hiding spot. There is a pair of boxes next to Alex, and within the boxes are small packages filled with pure white powder. My eyes go wide as I set my gaze upon what are clearly drugs.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and my blood begins rushing through my veins. Ducking back behind the shelves, I pray that they haven't spotted me.
"…thousand for what's here, then the rest when you can secure it," says Iwan. "I'm not going to be paying you for product that I can't put my hands on."
"Of course, of course," says Alex.
Breath floods out of my lungs in relief as I realize that they haven't spotted me. My eyes shoot over to the door leading back into the warehouse's main floor, and I begin to move towards it with slow, measured steps, sweat forming on my skin and my heart pounding as my body implores me to get as far away from this dangerous situation as possible.
Slinking along the shelf, I ignore the conversation between Iwan and Alex. Soon, I reach the corner, and as I turn my body, my shoulder bumps into a wrench jutting out from the shelf. The tool is cool against my skin for a brief moment before it is knocked free, falling to the floor with a heavy clatter. My eyes go wide as I watch it land on the ground.
"What the hell was that?" asks Alex. "You got someone else here?"
"No," says Iwan. "Not as far as I know."
A moment passes.
"Actually, you know what? My assistant should be showing up; that might be her."
My blood runs cold. The fear is causing tears of horror to form in my eyes, and I close the distance between me and the exit as fast as I can while still remaining silent. Slipping through the ajar door, I make it out to the main floor of the warehouse and break out into a sprint, the tears now running from my eyes as I cover the distance in a frantic dash.
I'm terrified beyond belief; never would I have guessed that I would've seen what I saw. Knowing what I know now, that Iwan's company is some sort of front for drug-running, I feel as though my world is crashing down around me. But these thoughts slip out of my head as soon as they form, and all I can think about is getting out and driving as far away as possible. I reach the door leading outside and throw it open.
Stepping out into the cool air, I prepare to make one last dash to my car. But as soon as I turn the corner, my body slams into something as hard as a brick wall. I stumble backward and look up, my vision blurry as I steady myself.
With a gasp, I realize that standing before me is Michal, his face calm, but his eyes conveying that he knows exactly what’s going on.
Chapter Six
Michal
I'm looking down at Alina and she's terrified. She doesn't know what to make of me standing here. I can see rapid computations behind her gray eyes, her fight-or-flight instinct doing its internal calculus. Tears are running down her face and her mouth is opened slightly.
At this moment, she looks just like all of the other girls.
But as I stand there in front of her, I catch myself feeling something—something more than the simple annoyance that I typically feel when dealing with this situation that I've handled dozens of times already: I feel protective. Part of me wants to put my arm around her, tell her everything's going to be alright, and drive her far, far away fr
om here. But as soon as the feeling wells up within me, I push it right back down.
Time to start the show.
"What happened?" I ask, putting my hands on her shoulders.
"I-I don't know," she stammers. "Your …father, your father, told me to meet him here …"
She sniffs and frantically wipes her tears away.
"He told me to …"
More tears.
"Not here," I say, looking around. "Come with me."
I take her by the hand, and she follows me along without protest. I breathe a small sigh of relief at this, but it annoys me to no end when I get the occasional girl who tries to make a break for it. I've never had a problem chasing them down, scooping them up, and carrying them to my car, but it's still a major pain in the ass. Girls like Alina who're overwhelmed with fear are much more manageable.
Popping open the passenger door to my jet-black Audi, I help her in. As soon as the doors shut, I can hear muffled sobs through the window. As easy as the criers are, it doesn't mean I like to deal with the tears.
I slide into the driver's side and shut the door, seeing that Alina is now suddenly composed. She's drying her eyes with tissues from her purse and taking slow, deep breaths. She's still scared, clearly, but I can't help but feel impressed at how quickly she was able to get ahold of herself.
"We're going to go to the office," I say. "Tell me what happened in there."
I start the car and pull out of the parking lot and onto the road.
"Your father …he told me to meet him here," she says, rubbing one hand with the other as she looks out of the window at the passing industrial buildings. "He told me to meet him at the warehouse. And when I arrived, he wasn't there. So, I walked in and started looking around."
"You shouldn't have done that," I say. "When my father says to meet him somewhere, he means it in the most literal sense. Meaning, arrive out front and wait for him to come get you."
"But I didn't know …I didn't know …" she says, shaking her head.
I think that she might start crying again, but she quickly composes herself.
"Tell me what you saw," I say, my voice clear and firm, sending the message that this is serious business.
"There …there was some kind of meeting happening. It was your father and another man—a man named Alex."
"Alex …" I repeat, my affected tone suggesting to her that this was a man of grave importance.
I realize that I'm getting too good at my acting; I'm starting to incorporate little improvisational flourishes. A count of how many girls, exactly, I've put through this same scenario starts going in my mind, but Alina begins speaking again before the number can rise too high.
"Yes, Alex. And there were men there—maybe a half a dozen—all with guns. It seemed like things were getting tense. And then …"
She trails off, and I can tell that she's hesitant to tell me exactly what she saw next. But she has to; it's the most important part.
"What did you see?" I ask, my voice still stern.
"I saw …drugs. Lots of drugs."
I take in a sharp breath through my nostrils, letting her know that she did, just like she thought, see something that she absolutely shouldn't have. In reality, it was the precise thing that we were hoping she'd see, but she won't ever know that.
Just like all the others … I think once again.
"Then what did you do? Did they see you?"
"No," she says quickly. "But I think they knew that I was there."
I say nothing as I drum my fingers on the leather steering wheel, pretending to really think about what needs to be done. But I already know: I'll take this girl back to the office, my father will arrive, and he'll let her know about the price of seeing something that she wasn't supposed to see. Then the same process that I've seen unfold so many times before will begin once again.
Those same lifeless eyes appear in my mind's eye once again.
"That's …what I was afraid you'd say."
"What's going to happen to me?" Alina asks, her voice carrying a tinge of fear.
"That's for my father to decide," I say, my tone grim.
I wonder if I'm laying it on a little thick. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Alina tuck her legs close to her body as she looks out of the window, and I wonder what she thinks is in store for her.
I pull into the building parking lot and into my private space. My father's own space is still empty, and I hope that the deal with Alex is going well. There shouldn't be any problems; Alex has been a loyal business associate for years, and I'm sure that the tension that Alina was referring to was nothing more than an act for her.
At least, I hope.
I kill the engine and look over at her. She's still making herself small and her eyes are locked on some far-away spot in the middle distance.
"Look," I say, placing my hand on her shoulder, finding her skin cool and smooth. "My father's tough, but he's reasonable. Just let him know exactly what you saw; the only thing he doesn't abide is lying."
"Okay," she says.
I'm hoping that I'm striking the right balance between serious and reassuring. I want her scared, but not “pants-wetting” terrified. Taking one last glance at Alina, I note that she seems to be holding up remarkably well, all things considered. Her tears have dried, and she seems fairly composed.
"Let's go," I say.
We step out of the car and take the elevator up to the floor where my father and my offices are located. The floor is quiet and still, no illumination but the halogen lights on their lowest settings down the halls. I lead Alina to my father's office, directing her to one of the chairs across from the desk as we enter, and I flick on the lights.
"What's going to happen to me?" asks Alina.
"Hard to say. I know my father isn't going to be happy that you saw what you did, but I know that he likes you quite a bit; can't say the same for most of the girls around here. We'll just have to wait and see."
The ornate grandfather clock on the far end of the office is ticking as we sit. I'm in my father's high-backed, leather chair, Alina sitting across from me, looking down in front of her. She seems almost resigned to whatever her fate might be.
"A drink?" I ask, getting up and walking over to my father's bar.
I look back at her and she simply shakes her head. After preparing a small tumbler of ice and some of my father's expensive, single-malt scotch, I walk over to the window and look out at the orange and white lights of the city beyond. Above, thick, gray clouds are roiling and swirling; it looks as though a storm might break out at any moment. I collapse back into my father's chair, taking a sip of my drink as I look over the expensive appointments of the office.
I'd be lying if I said that being in this position didn't appeal to me.
Then, the door opens, and my father steps in. I stiffen in my seat, and Alina's eyes snap to him. My father is wearing a serious expression on his face, and like always, he manages to control the room simply by standing and looking into it.
"Out of my chair," he says, breaking the silence.
My drink in hand, I stand up and walk over to the other side of the desk, taking a seat next to Alina. My father walks into the office with slow, measured steps, his eyes flicking back and forth between the two of us. I almost feel like Alina and I are a young couple getting caught sneaking out in the middle of the night, and my father is about to tell us that we're not to see each other anymore.
"What did she see?" my father asks me, his eyes still on Alina.
"She saw enough."
My father takes in a slow draw of air through his nose. We've done this little routine plenty of times, so we can play off each other quite well by this point. He walks over to the desk, his feet thudding against the soft carpet as he walks.
"Helping yourself to the good stuff, huh?" he asks, looking at the caramel-colored liquid in my round tumbler glass. "Make me one of those, why don't you?"
A smirk crosses my lips and I proceed to do what h
e asks.
Always pulling rank, I think to myself as I pour him a measure and place it on his desk.
"What are you going to do to me?" asks Alina, getting to the heart of the matter.
"My dear, you saw something that you weren't supposed to," says my father, leaning forward in his seat. "But I realize that I can't help but share some of the blame for the events of this evening. But, regardless, we cannot undo what has been done."
"Are you going to kill me?" asks Alina. "Just shoot me right here?"
My mouth forms into a grim line.
Yes, he's going to kill you, I think. But in a little more roundabout way than you're expecting.
