Tom Wood - The Enemy

‘Get off at the next stop and follow me,’ the man said without turning around.

At least you did that right, Victor thought.

Victor disembarked at the next stop. He abandoned the newspaper and switched the coffee cup to his left hand. In the distance, moonlit clouds silhouetted the harbour’s tall metal cranes. The air was cold. Victor’s suit jacket was unbuttoned. He had no gun to draw but it was easier to fight or run without a jacket than with.

The man in the leather jacket didn’t wait for him. He was already walking along the riverside in the direction of the harbour. He walked fast, his strides as purposeful as his face had been. Victor didn’t follow immediately but spent a moment observing the area. No one nearby.

Victor followed at the same pace as his guide to maintain the distance between them. He didn’t know where he was being led to or what awaited him when he arrived, so a little space between them was a necessary precaution. When his guide reached their destination, Victor would have some time to analyse the situation while he caught up.

They turned away from the river and along a canal that ran between huge warehouses with tall, arched windows. There were few streetlights and the area was quiet and dark. The sound of traffic was in the distance. Victor’s gaze swept back and forth, down and up, continually evaluating the environment for signs of an ambush and advantages to exploit in the event of one.

Working on the assumption that the guide was right-handed like ninety per cent of the world, if he drew a gun, he would naturally turn around in the opposite direction of his dominant hand to shoot at someone walking behind him. It was quicker that way. So Victor walked behind and to the right to maximise the turning distance, and therefore his own warning.

Up ahead the man stopped near to a wide alleyway. He turned to face Victor and waited for him to catch up. Victor decreased his pace, watching, listening. When he stopped before his guide, the other man gestured to the alleyway. Victor waited.

‘Down there,’ the man said. His hands were in the pockets of his coat.

Victor didn’t move.

The guide remained stationary for a moment. ‘I said down there.’

‘I heard you the first time.’

The purposeful face showed understanding. ‘Don’t like people walking behind you?’

‘No,’ Victor admitted.

The man nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s smart.’

He took his hands from his pockets and walked first into the alleyway. He didn’t look back. Victor followed after a few seconds. There was nowhere to run or hide in the confined space of the alleyway so Victor stayed close his guide. If he pulled a gun, Victor wanted to be near enough to grab it.

Fifty feet down the alley, the man stopped again. He used a key to unlock a metal door set into one of the warehouses. Hinges squealed.

‘Here we are,’ he said.

The guide looked at Victor, gave a knowing smile when Victor didn’t move, and then stepped through first.

Victor followed.

Inside, fluorescent ceilings lights illuminated a vast open space full of stacked crates and boxes. The air was cool and damp, smelling faintly of mould, rotting wood and marzipan. Victor stayed close to the guide. There were no people that he could see or hear.

The guide led Victor to the far side of the warehouse, heaved across the metal shutter of a freight elevator and stepped inside. He closed the shutter after Victor entered and pressed the button for the third floor. It took a few seconds for the ageing machine to come to life and squeaks and clanks accompanied their ascent. They left the odour of marzipan behind but the smell of mould and rotting wood deepened. Victor tilted his head to the left and then right to crack his neck.

He saw their legs first. Two pairs of boots and faded blue jeans standing near each other. He could hear one part way through telling a joke — something about a prostitute and a vacuum cleaner. He stopped speaking before the punchline as Victor came into view. Of the two, he was obviously the muscle, six-four and around two-twenty or — thirty. An even layer of stubble covered his head, chin and cheeks.

A woman stood close to the muscle. She was in her forties, five-nine, average build, lank black hair hanging over her ears. Her weighty duffel coat was buttoned all the way up. Victor smelled cigarette smoke and felt his mouth water. Four stubs lay crushed out by their feet.

The shutters clattered open. Victor stepped out, surveyed the level. Fewer boxes and crates than the ground floor, more open spaces. Empty metal shelving units, metal pillars. Old cement sacks lay in one corner, a stack of dust-covered plastic sheeting near the woman. The air was damp.

Three banks of fluorescent strip lights, of which only the middle bank was switched on, hung at regular intervals from the ceiling. There were no covers, just bare tubes, some burned out. Just enough light to illuminate the centre of the warehouse level. The floor to Victor’s left and right faded into darkness except where the arched windows were set.

Victor noted the ways in and out. On the wall on the far side of the woman and the muscle, a sign above a half-open metal door denoted it as a fire exit. Along the same wall, near to a stained stainless-steel sink, another opening led through to an adjoining room. Sickly green and flaking paint covered the far wall. Dirt and grease smeared the bricks and filled the gaps between them. In places long cracks cut through the mortar.

The guide stood near the elevator. Victor walked forward. The flooring was narrow planks of wood. Some were cracked, loose, warped or missing entirely. Victor felt soft, rotting boards under his shoes and took a step to more solid footing. He positioned himself so he could keep the guide within his peripheral vision while he faced the woman.

For a long moment no one spoke. Victor assessed the woman and her hulking friend, as he knew he was likewise assessed. What they made of him, he didn’t know. Victor was careful with his body language and facial expression to convey no threat while projecting no weakness.

‘You must be the buyer,’ the woman said eventually.

Her voice betrayed a measure of surprise. Whatever the woman had been expecting, Victor knew he wasn’t it.

He nodded. ‘And you must be Georg.’

‘Not my real name, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Victor echoed.

Georg said, ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’

‘I know.’

The overhead lighting created deep shadows under Georg’s cheekbones, nose, bottom lip. Her eyes were almost invisible in the darkness of their sockets.

‘Are you carrying any weapons?’ she asked.

‘Not unless you count my coffee.’

Georg’s thin lips stretched outwards slightly. ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘But I have to say I’m more concerned about firearms than I am hot beverages.’

‘I have no gun.’

‘You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.’ She raised a gloved hand, motioning to the muscle while her gaze stayed locked on Victor. ‘Make sure he’s telling the truth.’

The huge guy next to Georg strode towards Victor, eyes narrowed, thick jaw clenched, elbows bent outwards as though he was so laden with muscle he couldn’t walk any other way. The effort to intimidate was basic at best, especially when as he got closer it became apparent that a quarter of the bulk was made up of fat. Victor kept the observation to himself.

He stood still as large hands patted him down around the legs, arms and torso. He noticed the muscle had a. 45 calibre Colt tucked into his jeans, hidden but not well enough. He gestured for Victor to raise his arms, and he did. When the search had finished, the muscle walked back over to Georg.