One step at a time, Andy. First meet Sean, then figure out how not to get yourself killed in this shady deal.
The doors opened with a ding that sounded more like a death knell than a polite chime. The lobby buzzed like a beehive on a sugar rush, people swarming every which way. Men in suits clicked past on phones, barking about stocks and shares, while ladies in shimmering dresses glided by, leaving trails of perfume that could choke a skunk. I had to weave through the throng like a slalom skier avoiding human pylons. Amid this whirlpool, I scanned for my escape route, my eyes flicking to Bruno—a mountain of muscle and silence—standing at my shoulder.
Turning to him, I flashed my most innocent grin. “Gotta hit the head, man. All this water I’m chugging is making a beeline for my bladder.”
He nodded, stone-faced as ever, and lumbered behind me as I made for the men’s room.
Slipping into my old jeans and hoodie felt like putting on a superhero costume—Andy Donovan: Master of Disguise. With the hood up, I became just another face in the crowd.
I waited, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. Then, as if the universe had my back for once, a gaggleof rowdy college guys stumbled in, all loud laughs and flailing limbs.
Perfect.
I slid into their midst like a ninja joining a parade—casual, inconspicuous. We moved as one entity back into the lobby, and with each step toward freedom, my pulse thrummed with adrenaline.
Outside the air hit me with the force of reality—hot, dry, and smelling faintly of exhaust fumes. There was Sean’s car: a jalopy that looked like it survived an apocalypse or two. Spotting me, Sean waved energetically from behind the wheel. Great, just what I needed, enthusiasm from someone who couldn’t keep his life together.
I scurried over and yanked open the passenger door. Sean turned to greet me with a bruised face that looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson’s ghost since our last encounter at the casino—I knew I hadn’t landed that many punches. His face was a patchwork of purples and yellows that didn’t quite match his shirt.
“Andy! Man, it’s good to see you!” He reached for a hug.
I cut him off, pushing his arm away. “We’ve got a hulk of a body on our tail,” I said, nodding toward where Bruno stood scanning the crowd like an eagle hunting rabbits. “Hit it.”
Sean didn’t need to be told twice; he revved up that ancient engine like it was a racehorse instead of an asthmatic donkey and we peeled out of there with all the grace of a shopping cart missing a wheel.
Ihad no idea how I got here—my heart thundering like a drum solo and hiding behind the rusted-out side of Sean’s jalopy while bullets whizzed overhead like it was the Fourth of July and we were the main event.
A few hours ago, I slumped into a sticky booth at Burger Heaven, a far cry from the Michelin-starred extravaganzas I’d gotten used to with Matt. The place smelled like grease and desperation, and I tried to focus on Sean’s latest scheme while gnawing on a burger that could double as a hockey puck. Sean’s voice buzzed in my ear, something about clearing my debt with a quick job. I nodded, chewing mechanically, my mind drifting back to Matt—how his fury would be volcanic when he discovered I was missing. My stomach churned, and it wasn’t just the downgrade in culinary standards.
As night draped itself over the city, Sean’s beat-up car growled its way to an underground parking lot of an old building that looked like it had seen better days during the Prohibition era. We climbed out of the car, and I followed Sean like a lamb trailing behind a particularly clueless shepherd.
The place smelled of oil and stale urine, and dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead. We made our way to where the meeting was supposed to happen. My every instinct screamed for me to bolt, but loyalty—or stupidity—kept me rooted to Sean’s side.
We entered what looked like an abandoned office space. A group of men milled about, their conversations a blend of English and Spanish. They were clearly from Carlos’ crew—each one exuding danger like cologne.
Sean exchanged words with them in Spanglish that sounded like he’d learned it from a soap opera. I watched from the sidelines, aiming not to look as out of place as a penguin in a desert.
Then he arrived—Carlos himself. Short and stocky, he looked like he could bench-press a small car or maybe just run it over with his thick black mustache. His bald head shone under the harsh lights as he approached us with the confidence of a man who knew he owned everything in sight.
“Este esAndy,” Sean introduced me with an arm slung over my shoulder that I promptly shrugged off.
Carlos’ gaze landed on me then—a look that made my skin crawl worse than that time I found myself in a nest of ants during a childhood dare gone wrong. There was something in his eyes that didn’t sit right—a predatory gleam that made my stomach flip-flop.
Sean and Carlos launched into rapid Spanish—a conversation as impenetrable to me as Fort Knox. All I caught were occasional words—dinero, acuerdo—things that sounded businesslike and not at all reassuring.
As they spoke, Carlos kept throwing glances my way, sizing me up like I was some prize bull at an auction. And being on the receiving end of that look didn’t do wonders for my self-esteem—or my sense of safety.
The place felt like a scene from a noir film—gritty, shadowy, and steeped in an undercurrent of tension that made my skin prickle. As Sean and Carlos yammered on, I couldn’t help but notice the centerpiece of this clandestine meeting: a mountain of drugs. Powdered white gold, enough to send Scarface into early retirement.
Carlos’ goons hauled out duffel bags that could’ve doubled as body bags—and for all I knew, might soon be repurposed as such. They unzipped them with dramatic flair, revealing enough white powder to make Tony Montana weep with envy. The stuff glittered under the harsh fluorescents like the world’s deadliest snow globe.
My brain, unhelpfully providing a running commentary, estimated we were looking at enough nose candy to fund a small country’s GDP. Hundreds of millions, easily. I’d stumbled into the kind of deal that usually only happened in movies—the kind where everyone dies in the end.
While theReservoir Dogsextras handled the merchandise with the utmost care, Carlos and Sean still chattered away like a pair of hens at a knitting circle. My Spanish is limited to asking where the bathroom is, so I was as lost as a kid in a supermarket.
Sean started loading up his crapped-out car, handling each brick like it was made of gold-plated dynamite. I started sweating through my shirt, the air thick with unspoken tension and whatever cologne that mustachioed pipsqueak bathed in.
The silence shattered with the rumble of engines. An entire convoy of blacked-out SUVs rolled into the lot, doors bursting open to disgorge more hired muscle than I’d ever want at a family barbecue. These guys looked like they could crack walnuts with a piercing glare.
