Mom has given up. Refusing practically all medical care.Too costly, she says. Like her life has a price.
My legs feel like lead as I trudge across the hospital hallway. For years now, we’ve been drowning in Mom’s medical bills. Every spare penny goes to pay down the debt. It took a while to diagnose Mom’s coronary artery disease, mostly because we don’t have health insurance. And because Mom was toostubborn to see a doctor, even when pain and fatigue kept her confined to bed. She is at high risk of heart failure, so a heart transplant might be her only chance.
There’s just one small obstacle. The teeniest detail, beyond other factors like her age, overall health, medical urgency, and actually finding a matching donor.
I need a measly one point nine million dollars to keep her alive.
No biggy, right?
I wipe the tears from my eyes as I approach Mom’s bed. She’s napping. Her long, light-brown hair is braided and draped over her pillow. She looks so peaceful. But she’s probably hopped-up on meds. She rarely naps during the day at home.
Her hands rest on top of a thin sheet. They look so delicate, so fragile. Gently, I take one in mine, smoothing her calloused palm with my thumb.
I remember when her hands were soft. When her elegant fingers braided my hair before school. When they wiped my tears away when I was sick or sad. Her warm touch always made me feel protected and loved. Mom’s beautiful hands. They’ve lost their youthful luster. These days, the skin is a bit rough, the veins a bit more prominent. But Mom’s hands still make me feel loved, still keep me safe, and happy.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I whisper. “I’ll find a way.” I stroke her knuckles, softly squeeze her hand, then reach into my purse to grab my phone.
I stare at Rina’s name in my text app for nearly a minute, my thumb hovering over the keyboard on my screen. After only two weeks of working at the private gentlemen’s club, she already earned enough money to buy a car. It might be a ten-year-oldclunker, but it runs. And it doesn’t look that bad in the pictures. Two weeks, five grand. Crazy money.
With a deep breath, I type out a short message and immediately hitSend. I can’t afford to chicken out.
18:21 Iris:Could you ask Maggie to get me in, too?
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. Andmytransportation 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 forcargo 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,
