Chapter Five
Alina
One month later …
Taking a quick glance at my new phone, I see that it's nearly nine PM. As I keep my car driving straight down the sparse city boulevard leading to work, I wonder what it could possibly be that Mr. Nowak needs me at the office for at this hour. But that's all the text said: "Alina, come to the warehouse, now. – I.N."
It isn’t as though I haven’t gotten used to his demanding nature by this point. Iwan Nowak is a courteous man for the most part, with an especially gentlemanly manner with women, especially the young and pretty ones, but behind this old-fashioned front was the cold, calculating mind of a businessman; I could just tell. And this is fine with me; men like him are successful for a reason, and being tough and uncompromising when necessary is an important personality trait to have when it comes to getting ahead in business.
It's a bit of a Slavic thing, too. Our part of the world has been through quite a bit of trauma, especially over the course of the twentieth century, and men and women his age tend to be a little harder than most. For this, I don't blame them one bit. But this still doesn’t mean that I enjoy coming to work this late.
I turn towards the building where my office is located, the lights of the place out, aside from those that I can tell are on my floor. For some reason, Iwan told me to meet him not at the office, but at the storage warehouse near the building—the large, industrial area where they keep construction equipment that isn’t in use. Looking up at the illuminated floor of the offices, I wonder what's going on up there at this hour and why whatever Iwan needs me for can’t simply take place there.
Putting all of this out of my head, I remember that going out of my way to be a diligent, reliable employ will likely pay off dividends in the future. Not to mention the fact that they’ve been good to me so far; my apartment, this car, and a good, reliable paycheck- all are afforded to me by Iwan. Showing up after hours and in good spirits is the least I can do to show my thanks.
Plus, it's not as though I have anything more important going on than lying around in my dingy apartment watching Netflix anyhow.
I drive past the office building, taking the turn onto the narrow road between buildings that leads to the warehouse. The skinny street is lit by thin, orange light illuminating the road in small pools from the street lights above. I roll down the window a bit and notice that the sounds of traffic are now far away. Even though I'm downtown, where I am feels lonely and isolated, and a slight chill comes over my skin. I realize that I don't like where I am, not one bit, but I take solace in the fact that I'll be with Iwan soon.
Driving straight and slow, I arrive at the warehouse. It's a squat, dingy building surrounded by dim, white lights, with a handful of parking spaces out front. Iwan's car is there, a dark green, old-model Jaguar convertible, along with a pair of other luxury cars. I pull into an open spot on the other side of the lot. It sounds silly, but I don’t feel like my low-rent economy car had any business being near cars like those.
Killing the engine, I listen to the air outside. It’s still and quiet, the low rumbling of a truck clanging down the road several blocks away barely a murmur. I can't hear Iwan, and I surmise that whatever he's doing, he must be inside waiting for me.
Taking a breath, I step out of the car, pulling my leather work bag off of the passenger seat and holding it close to my body. My skin breaks out in gooseflesh and a sense of danger snakes through the pit of my stomach. Part of me, the flight-or-flight, animal part of my mind, is warning me to leave, telling me that there's something wrong here and that the smart thing to do would be to get back in my car, drive home, and make up some excuse about having a flat tire or something.
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.