I tell myself it's just in case.
4
The First Warning
Nathan
The warehouse smells like rust and salt and the particular kind of desperation that comes from things that were never meant to see the light of day.
I've been standing here for forty-seven minutes, watching a man whose name I don't bother to remember count stacks of currency that don't technically exist. He's sweating. They're always sweating, these men, even when the warehouse is cold enough to see your breath. Something about the weight of what they're handling, I suppose. The knowledge that if anyone walked through that door right now—anyone with a badge and a warrant and the kind of certainty that comes from a lifetime of playing by different rules—their lives would end in a very small room with very bright lights.
I don't sweat. I've never seen the point.
"Seventy-two," the man says. His voice cracks on the second syllable. "Seventy-two even."
"Seventy-two," I repeat, letting the number hang in the air between us. It's not a question. It's not a confirmation. It's a test, and we both know it.
He swallows. "Yes, sir. Seventy-two."
I look at the stacks. Neat. Aligned. The kind of obsessive precision that comes from fear, not professionalism. He's afraid of me. They're all afraid of me, eventually. Some of them start that way—the ones who've heard the stories, the ones who know the name my father built and the ways I've already started to expand it. Others take longer. They see the smile, hear the charm, think they're dealing with a boy playing at his father's game.
Those ones are always surprised when I show them what I really am.
"Seventy-two," I say again, and this time I let my mouth curve into something that might be a smile. "You're short."
His face goes white. "I—no, I counted three times. Seventy-two even. I swear on my—"
"Your wife?" I tilt my head. "Your children? Your mother's grave?" I step closer, and he steps back, and the concrete floor echoes with the sound of his heels scraping against the grime. "I don't care about any of that. I care about the number. And the number is wrong."
I reach into my jacket and pull out a slip of paper. My father's handwriting—neat, precise, the same hand that taught me to write my letters when I was five years old. The same hand that signed the papers that made this whole operation possible.
Eighty-five, it says.By the fifteenth.
"Today is the fifteenth," I say. "And you have seventy-two. Which means you're thirteen short. Which means someone is lying to me. And I don't like being lied to."
The man—I should probably learn his name, just in case I need to find him later—is shaking now. Not visibly, not the kind of trembling that draws attention, but I can see it in his hands. The way his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides. The way his knuckles go white.
"It wasn't me," he says. "The shipment from the coast was light. They said there was a problem with the—"
"I don't care about the problem." I fold the paper and tuck it back into my jacket. "I care about the solution. You have forty-eight hours to find the missing thirteen. If you don't, I'll send someone to help you look. And I promise you, my someone is much better at finding things than you are."
He nods. Rapid. Desperate. The way a rabbit nods at a fox, hoping that agreement will be enough to save its skin.
"Forty-eight hours," I repeat. "Don't make me come back here."
I walk away before he can respond. The warehouse stretches out around me—acres of concrete and steel, stacks of shipping containers that don't contain what their labels claim, a labyrinth of things that are best not examined too closely. My footsteps echo off the walls, steady and unhurried. I have nowhere to be until midnight, when the next shipment arrives, and I've learned that patience is its own kind of weapon.
Outside, the air is cold and wet. November in this city means rain that doesn't know whether to be rain or snow, hovering somewhere in between, making everything slick and grey and miserable. I light a cigarette and lean against the wall of the warehouse, watching the water drip from the eaves.
The man I actually care about—the one who works for my father, the one who's been with the family since before I was born—is waiting by the car. His name is Viktor, and he's old enough to be my grandfather, and he's been a fixture in my life for as long as I can remember. He holds the door open forme without being asked, and I slide into the back seat, and the leather is warm because he started the engine ten minutes ago, knowing I'd be coming out soon.
"The shipment from the coast," I say, as Viktor pulls away from the warehouse. "What happened?"
"Mechanical issues. A truck broke down outside Harrisburg. They're rerouting the inventory through a different carrier, but it'll take another day."
"Thirteen units?"
"Thirteen exactly."
