Chapter 2 #2
Entering my bedroom through the dark oak door with a vertical privacy window, I throw my book on top of the glossy, black desk to the side of it.
The afternoon light beams through my open windows, the silky net curtains swaying gently in the late warm summer breeze.
I like to keep everything neutral in the estate, and luckily, Jacques was in agreement.
There’s enough chaos within our business; we don’t need that in our home too.
I amble to the en-suite bathroom, decorated in black marble paired with gold accents.
Opening the mirror cabinet, I pull out a full pot of tiny pills.
Alexander Warren
To be taken once a day for ADHD symptoms as prescribed.
Bullshit. No amount of medication ever helped calm the swirl of chaos in my brain.
These pills are ten years old, and I still remember the day I stopped taking them.
Nothing changed, but I found ways to cope.
It took a damn long time. Something wasn’t right, and Jacques was on the receiving end, but he still doesn’t know I’ve stopped taking my pills.
He’d force me to take them, and he’d blame any obsessive episode on the fact that I stopped.
But he knows damn well that what happens inside me can’t be diagnosed by a doctor.
And I’m coping.
For now.
I shove the pills back in the cabinet and slide it shut, making the contents rattle.
I slide my black balaclava over my face, and Jac follows suit in the driver's seat. Our guns click in the quiet rumble of the SUV as we take off the safeties and shove them into the deep pockets of our black bomber jackets.
“This better not take us longer than it needs to,” Jac says, his words muffled through the cotton of his mask.
A grainy voice cuts through the handheld radio perched inside a cup holder in the middle console. “We’re stationed nearby.” An ending chime follows.
Jac nods his head at me before sliding the radio into his free pocket.
Turning off the engine, we both exit the car, our doors slamming shut and echoing through the empty shipping docks.
There are no ships or signs of new cargo, just seemingly empty containers—which isn’t a rare sight, but there’s one thing that sets my body on immediate alert.
There are multiple blacked-out four-by-fours dotted around the large concrete area.
Jac’s head slowly turns as he takes in the vehicles before he finally lands on me and narrows his eyes.
A group of three guys—also dressed in all black—stand by the only blue shipping container, which should be carrying our supply. Their attention is centred on us.
“What the fuck?” Jac whispers.
“The Italians all of a sudden need more security?”
Jac shrugs in response, and I hear a quiet bleep of the radio in his pocket.
He’s sent an alert to our men.
I dip my head at the three guys, and we begin to make our way over to our target of the night.
The closer we get to them, the more I worry that I don’t recognise these guys.
Our footsteps echo in the strained silence of the night.
Everything about this is wrong. These aren’t our usual suppliers, and the supply is sitting right in the middle of the dock, with a single streetlamp shining down onto it. Had we not disturbed the CCTV cameras here, that would be incriminating material.
I clutch the pistol inside my pocket, my finger resting on the trigger. They’re seemingly unarmed, but we’d be stupid to think otherwise.
As we approach—halting just metres from them—the man in the middle with a clean-shaven head, who looks about twenty years older than us, steps forward.
“You Xander?” he asks, a strong Turkish accent bouncing off the metal containers around us, his tone nothing short of trying to be intimidating.
Turkish.
Not Italian.
“Where are our men?” Jac fires back, leaving no room for introductions.
“I asked if you were Xander.”
I press my finger to the trigger more firmly, but not enough to set off any bullets yet. “No, I am,” I assert.
His head snaps to me, a slow grin growing on his face, revealing a single gold tooth in the front. My brows furrow beneath my mask, and Jac tenses beside me.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jac snaps impatiently, causing them all to focus on him.
Baldy takes slow steps towards him, and his lackeys shuffle behind him. The guy is about two feet smaller than Jac, but he continues his approach anyway. I mentally laugh at that; the guy has a death wish challenging my best friend.
"I'd watch your mouth, boy. Your shipment is right behind me," he threatens, taking a slow look at the container, then winks at Jac.
Jac chuckles darkly through his mask. "Take one more step towards me, old man. I dare you."
"Ahmet," another man wearing a beanie hat pipes up, clearing his throat.
Baldy breaks away from their stare-off, walking back towards the cargo containers.
As he turns his back to us I wonder if he's brave or stupid.
Jac and I glance at each other, our eyes communicating a question.
Who the fuck are these guys?
Every shipment, it's the same men.
The third guy—who's been standing quietly and out of the way—walks over to the padlock keeping the cargo container locked. He twists a small key into the lock. It glints as it snaps open. He moves away, opening his arm towards it in a gesture of handing it over to us.
“Well, there it is,” Baldy snaps through the silence.
“Move the fuck out of the way,” I demand, which makes him laugh in response.
“Your men weren’t available tonight, so they sent us,” he smiles widely.
“Is something fucking funny?” Jac grills, pulling his gun out of his pocket and pointing it at Baldy.
“Woah, man.” Beanie Hat throws his hands up. “It’s the truth,” he placates in the same accent. “Put the gun down.”
Telling Jac to put his gun away is like trying to tell an addict to quit.
“Move,” Jac warns.
They all glance at each other before slowly backing away from the container.
Jac walks backwards behind me as we move towards the container, watching them closely with his gun pointed at them.
I unlatch the heavy, gold-plated steel, and the container doors groan open. The streetlamp glow doesn't reach inside, so I pull out my burner phone, turning on the flashlight and shining it into the container.
Empty.
I turn, gun pulled out of my jacket and pointed at the smug-looking men. “It’s fucking empty.”
The first gunshot rings out from Jac’s gun, the sound ricocheting around us.
More armed enemies emerge from the other containers as everyone searches for cover.
I spin around the back of the open container door on the left, bullets pinging off the metal surface. They stop momentarily, so I use this opportunity to peek around the container.
Engines roar as our men pull in through the barbed fences, and their black-clad frames file out of the SUVs.
"Jacques," I call out as the bullets resume clanging.
"I'm good. Get the fuck out of here!" he yells back.
“There‘s too many of them!”
I peek the gun out over the side of the door, firing blind bullets.
There are multiple grunts, cracking of guns, and tyres screeching.
There’s nowhere for me and Jac to go; we have to wait it out and hope our bullets hit their targets.
Rapid footsteps echo, and I re-emerge from behind the container, seeing Beanie Hat fleeing towards a darkened area.
I aim and shoot, piercing him in the back of the head. Blood, small fragments of skull, and skin spray as he drops to the ground.
Then, silence.
“All clear!” one of our men’s voices booms.
I blow out a breath, my head thumping against the metal as I lean backwards.
Standing, I walk towards Beanie Hat’s body.
I kick him over to reveal lifeless eyes and a face that’s no longer recognisable.
Jac comes to stand beside me, cursing under his breath.
I tug the material off my face, pulling oxygen into my lungs as the air cools the sweat off my face.
These masks are fine in the colder months, but in the summer they nearly suffocate me.
It’s safer to keep our identities hidden from suppliers, which means suffering these godforsaken pieces of fabric.
It’s enough that most of the underworld knows us; the suppliers don’t need to know who’s buying from them.
"We need to get this to Matt. We need to find out where our Italian suppliers disappeared to tonight," I state, leading the way back to the car.
Our team are already heaving deceased bodies into black bags, ready to be disposed of, never to be spoken about again.
We enter the blacked-out SUV, taking one last glance at the destroyed container now littered with multiple bullet holes.
"Fuckers," I mutter before Jac pulls out of the docks.