Chapter 5
The heavy warehouse doors slide to the sides, revealing a brightly lit interior.
However, the view into the depths of the massive structure is impeded by a row of strategically parked forklifts.
I step inside, navigating between a pair of orange machines to head deeper into the vast space, while my transit operations director dutifully follows on my heels.
Nathan has been managing the day-to-day of my goods and cargo running business for seven years now, ever since I poached him from a competitor in New York.
Though it wasn’t exactly my aggressive recruiting campaign that got him in the end.
Nathan Quinn is something of a hotshot in this field, but he got a bit carried away with his extracurricular activities and dug himself a six-figure-deep hole with the local Greek loan shark.
It took some bargaining, but I was able to acquire his debt, and therefore the kid, from the Hellenic Mob.
But not before that bastard leader of theirs doubled the price tag.
I suppose I could have simply offered Nathan the job and an outrageous salary to make it impossible for him to turn me down, but people tend to be more diligent about handling delicate matters and keeping their mouths shut when they feel the sway of an ax above their heads.
And my transportation business is an extremely delicate matter.
Just like the docking bays at the back of the building, the equipment in the main space of the warehouse is merely for show, to make the place look like it’s actually being used for cargo loading.
To complete the facade, several industrial-grade, ceiling-high shelves occupy the massive depot, and each is filled with a mountain of crates, bins, and boxes.
All “cargo” bears the logos of various brands.
Of course, only the lower shelves are stacked with actual products; most of the boxes up high are empty—there to reinforce the appearance that this building is a working warehouse.
Not that anyone would dare to come onto my property to snoop around, but I like to be prepared in case someone happens to glance past the open doors.
“Is everything okay, sir?” Nathan asks as we walk toward the storage shelves to the right of the entrance.
A low growl forms at the back of my throat, and only years of self-control and conditioning allow me to keep it in. “Of course.”
“I’m sorry for calling you at this hour,” he says as he tries to keep up with my hurried stride.
“But the driver appeared more than simply agitated. He insisted that he needed to speak with you in person and to relay the note directly into your hands. I felt it was important to bring it to your attention immediately.”
Indeed. I don’t have direct contact with low-level employees, and everyone knows that.
The fact that Nathan felt compelled to bother me at all, considering the driver’s behavior and claims, probably means that “important” is an understatement.
Something tells me this is connected to the text message I received last week.
This bullshit has been happening for years.
Started with a text from an unknown number to my personal cell phone, containing some stupid rhyme about the downfall of empires.
I ignored it, figuring it was nothing but spam.
Until two months later, when a local do-good monkey in a suit turned up at one of my shipping terminals with a list of boloney charges about workers’ safety and an order for the site to be shut down.
Since then, I received a slew of messages from different, untraceable numbers. At first, one rolled in every couple of months. Eventually, however, the frequency increased. In the past twelve months, almost a dozen turned up.
Although my people can’t pin down the sender, I’m convinced it’s the same guy. Each text is loaded with an obvious gloat and hints poetically at the upcoming demise of my business. Veiled threats of something going wrong with the one thing or another I’m involved in.
Import customs clearances—denied. The months-long bid for the takeover of a small-time logistics firm—overruled a mere hour before the title announcement was made.
My trucks selected for “random” searches at border crossings, even after the cash to ensure that precise thing wouldn’t happen had already changed hands.
I spent loads of money trying to locate the fucker. So far, no success.
The latest text arrived a week ago, and it was the same cryptic rhymey crap:
10:10 Unknown:
Though your scheme is sharp and tightly planned,
Defeat may still extend its hand.
The routes you trust, the wheels you bless,
Now are with someone else.
What stayed concealed, kept out of view,
Has found new eyes and purpose, too.
The asshole is getting more poetic and less coherent with each new message.
Passing the last row of shelves, I reach the open area where some of our cube vans drive inside the warehouse to load up. Just to the side is a limited space where we park the next few vehicles in the queue. Several are waiting there now.
“Where is the driver?” I ask.
“Stall number four.” Nathan nods in the intended direction. “He’s waiting for you, sir.”
My footsteps echo on the concrete as I approach the vehicle Nathan pointed out.
Like all the others in my fleet, the sides of the cargo hold and the doors of the cab of this otherwise white vehicle are marked with the navy Ruffo Enterprises logo.
The identical outward appearance is purposeful.
The identical interiors, too. The upholstery.
The dashboard components. All uniform. All of the cube vans look the same.
The semis and other vehicle types, also.
Even the make of tires is standard. There are no other labels.
No unit number. No fleet identifier. The only way to visually distinguish between each truck or van is by the license plates.
This might be a pain in the ass for fleet management purposes.
But there’s a method to my madness. In this business—not the global transportation conglomerate, the other enterprise—keeping a low profile is of the highest importance.
The more alike trucks and people look, the better.
If none can be identified, they cannot be singled out.
If they can’t be singled out, they won’t be stopped.
That is why uniformity matters. The whole operation blends into the background noise.
Just another convoy, another route, another shift.
It becomes the simplest form of protection in plain sight.
Not because it is clever, but because it is mindlessly dull.
Interchangeable. Unremarkable. Forgettable.
And in this line of work, indispensable.
As I approach Stall 4, I’m greeted with a good afternoon, sir, by a man in his thirties, wearing navy cargo pants and a navy T-shirt that also bears the company logo.
He’s cleanly shaven, and his hair’s cropped short, just like every other driver in my employ.
As with equipment and uniform dress code, all personnel are required to adhere to a synonymous personal appearance.
Hands clasped in front of him, the man nervously mangles a mandatory baseball hat as he watches me get nearer.
“Show me,” I demand without raising my voice. My even tone belies exactly how irritated I’m feeling.
The driver reaches into the back pocket of his pants and takes out a folded piece of paper. “The guy said you’ll know what this is.”
Unfolding the note, I scan the alphanumeric list. Rage ignites in me the instant I realize what the values represent.
“Describe the encounter to me.”
“I pulled into the truck stop on I-55, about thirty miles southwest of Chicago. Next thing I know, some scary-looking dude with an eye patch comes up to me while I’m having a cup of joe.
He didn’t introduce himself, just handed me this and said to deliver it to you personally. Said if I didn’t, he’d know.”
“Anything else?”
“He…ah…talked with a bit of an accent and said that the pakhan would be waiting for your call. Then he left.”
“You are sure he said pakhan?”
“Yes.”
“You are free to go.” I dismiss the driver with a nod toward the exit. The moment he is out of earshot, I turn to Nathan.
“Direct all priority vehicles to the nearest distribution center and have each unloaded immediately upon arrival. No exceptions,” I instruct.
“Then, I want the cargo to be repacked onto the auxiliary transports and sent off via secondary routes. All records for these changes are to be noted only in the local maintenance ledgers, not in the central management system. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I reach for my phone and head toward the exit.
As usual, Brahms answers on the first ring.
“We have a leak,” I growl, staring at the note that contains a list of license plates. “I want to know how a list of my trucks carrying cocaine ended up with Bratva. And I want whoever is responsible for that found.”