Shipment
Raphael Mirabaud
Betrayal.
Raphael stood in the cold warehouse and watched the tall van coast through the wide bay doors, its tires crunching frozen dirt and rocks on the cement floor. Ice melted off the windows and hood and built up behind the tires in filthy clumps. Its headlights cut beams through the dim warehouse space.
A stiff December wind rushedthrough the open bay doors, tugging Raphael’s coat and pant legs. He shoved his hands farther into his coat pockets against the chill and rocked on his toes and heels to warm himself. The freezing air stung the inside of his nose like the smell of frozen steel and wormed inside his coat collar.
The van rolled to a stop, and the driver shifted inside the shadowy cab, killing the engine. The headlightsblinked off.
A door on the side flipped open.
The men waiting with Raphael fidgeted and blew on their hands. The automatic weapons slung on straps around their necks wove in the wintry wind. If they had been in Raphael’s annual crop of conscripts in the Swiss army, he would have handed out demerits for taking their hands off their weapons, leaving them unsecured.
One little girl stepped outof the van and looked around the warehouse, bewildered. She looked about ten, and her dark hair spilled from under her hat over her blue coat. She hugged the jacket more tightly around her thin frame.
Any time now,Raphael thought.
Two more children joined her, then another three. They crowded off the small bus until fifteen of them stood there. Several of the smaller girls were holding handswith older girls. All were diminutive in stature, even the ones who looked older. All were thin to the point of frailty, and all looked around the warehouse with frightened eyes.
The bay doors behind the van creaked as they began to close.
The men near Raphael walked forward, glancing up at the rafters as they went.
Catwalks clung to the walls of the warehouse near the vaulted ceiling. Menstood there, holding long rifles much like the ones the men near Raphael were holding. Kalashnikovs, all of them, for the Ilyin Bratva was patriotic in their weapons purchases. Also, Russian oligarchs support each other, buying stock from each other, because they will suffer repercussions if they don’t. One does not snub Russian government officials.
The center of the warehouse was set up tobe a free-fire zone to ensure no other bratva or crime organization stole the valuable merchandise standing near the van. Most human traffickers are slavers, selling women for prostitution or men as labor slaves. The benefit there was that the slaves could be sold over and over again and were thus a valuable commodity that continued to generate revenue.
These girls were meant to be sold once,an unusual arrangement, and thus their prices were hundreds of times the amount usually garnered for a human being.
Each one was very valuable.
This operation was at high risk of being attacked.
The men had stood back from the van in case it had already been compromised, but with the girls unloaded, it was unlikely that the bus was a threat.
The girls huddled together as the men approached,obviously terrified.
Any time now,Raphael thought.Any damn time.
Raphael hated himself with a vehement, raging anger that he did not allow to break the thin ice of his expression.
He hated Piotr Ilyin and the entire Ilyin Bratva.
Piotr Ilyin stood behind Raphael with a small cadre of men, watching the process unfold. He wasn’t holding a rifle, though Raphael wouldn’t venture that he wasunarmed. A heavy, showy weapon wasn’t his style.
The few men standing around him looked more alert than the line who were advancing on the bus. Those guys looked around too much, their heads swiveling on their necks as they peered around the edges of their coat hoods or chinned their mufflers out of the way. Raphael didn’t like how jumpy they were.
The bay doors creaked again as they were pulledcloser together, a sharp whine above the crunching of footsteps on ice and gravel.
Raphael heard more footsteps behind him, too many footsteps, all at once.
Piotr’s entourage wouldn’t be walking around the warehouse. No one else should be back there.
Raphael turned halfway and looked back.
Three stories of offices clustered in the back of the warehouse. The dark windows were black squareson the back wall. A hallway from the back door led through the administration space to the warehouse floor.
