When you hear the words Express Delivery Service, you think of FedEx, or maybe Amazon, right? Well, the one I worked for was a little different. It was run by one man and one man alone: Mikhail. I got to work with him because I fucked up. Big time.
Long story short, I was a useless bum. I was never serious about work. Instead, I looked for ways to make big money, easy ways. When nothing worked out, I ended up at my city’s shitty casinos. When I say shitty, I mean it. My city’s no Vegas, so all you can find are grimy basements with old slot machines and worn poker tables.
Gambling’s fucked up, especially when you’re desperate. Just one more game. Just one win. It didn’t take long for my measly welfare money to dry up. A few days later, I’d burned through all my credit. All the while, I kept telling myself, I just needed more time.
That’s when I met Aleksey, a second-generation Russian immigrant. He was a blast. After dropping out of university, I’d lost touch with most of my friends. It felt great to have someone to gamble, drink and party with again. When I told him about my money troubles, he introduced me to Yuri, a friend of his. I hadn’t paid rent in two months, and I couldn’t make money monthly credit payments. I was looking for some serious trouble. Yuri said he’d led me some cash, enough to cover my bills, and to give me another shot at the tables. Being the idiot I was, I didn’t think twice. I paid off the bank and went right back to the poker table with Aleksey. I can’t believe I didn’t see the obvious. No, I think I knew all along, but I wanted to believe that Aleksey really was my friend.
Fast forward a few months, and I’m sitting at Yuri’s again, asking for another loan. Things were different that day. Yuri was different. The way he looked at me made my stomach drop. In a few short words, he told me there were no more loans. Instead, he wanted his money back.
Turns out, neither Aleksey nor Yuri had been my friends. They preyed on idiots like me, people dumb enough to fall for their charade. At this point, I realized what they were doing. The casinos I’d spent all my loans at? They were Yuri’s. Every Euro I’d lost had gone right back to him. A no-loss game for this asshole.
All those thoughts ran through my head as I sat in Yuri’s backroom, nose busted, fingers broken. They kept me there for four hours and made sure I knew they weren’t fucking around. I was a trembling, shaking mess by the end. I cried, pleaded, and promised I’d find a way to pay. They ignored every single word.
Finally, Yuri told me there was one way to repay him. An acquaintance of his needed someone for a job. It wasn’t an offer. It was an order. He handed me a slip of paper with an address and a time. I stared at it with wide eyes. What the hell was this? What did he mean by-?
“You be there. If not, we find you and kill you. And we will find you.”
I nodded frantically. I’d seen his gun on the desk, and the grin on his face when he broke my fingers. There was doubt he would.
They kicked me out, and I was left to drag my battered body back home. I didn’t think about going to the police or the hospital. There’d be questions, and questions meant trouble.
Three days later, I found myself on the outskirts of the city. The address Yuri had given me was a parking lot near an old industrial area.
I’d not slept all night. Hell, I’d barely slept at all ever since I’d been at Yuri’s! I kept telling myself that Yuri needed his money back, but could I be sure? What if this was a set-up? They could make an example of me, and I’d end up a washed up corpse down by the river. No identification, just another anonymous body.
The thought of running crossed my mind. Would they really find me? How would they even know where I’d go? No, stop! You’re going to be all right. Just calm down, you goddamn idiot. You fucked up enough already.
As I got closer to the parking lot, I scanned the area meticulously. I looked for cars, people, anything. But there was no one. I was completely alone. Anything could happen out here, I realized. Anything. Don’t run. Don’t you dare run. I tried waiting at the edge of the lot, but after a few minutes, I grew too antsy. I felt naked, vulnerable, like prey. Hell, I didn’t even know what I was waiting for. Eventually, I pushed myself between a few meager bushes, trembling and keeping my eyes open. My mind was spinning, combining movie scenes into more and more ridiculous scenarios. A group of Russian bikers would arrive, or a black van with tinted windows. Hell, maybe an agent of the freaking KGB.
What showed up couldn’t be more different: a small weathered truck, the colors faded, the open loading area entirely empty. For several minutes, the truck just stood there, idling. I was convinced it had nothing to do with this entire thing. Then, the driver-side window went down, and I saw the hard face of a middle-aged man. He stared straight at me, and the moment our eyes met, I knew this was the guy. I cursed under my breath and stumbled out of the bushes and towards the truck. He must’ve seen me the second he arrived. Fuck.
“Are you Mikha-?”
“Get in,” he cut me off with a thick Russian accent.
I walked around to the other side of the truck, and when I reached for the handle, the doors unlocked. I got in awkwardly, shutting the door behind me. The moment I did, he locked them again. I sat there, trembling, sweating, but trying my hardest to hide it. For a few seconds, I didn’t dare move, just sat there, staring ahead, telling myself to calm the fuck down.
Then I stole a glance at the man from the corner of my eye. His face was hard, his skin rough and leathery. His eyes were sharp and piercing, almost predatory. I couldn’t even guess his age. He could’ve been anywhere from thirty to fifty. His hair was cropped short, his beard a little more than a shadow of stubble. He wore a dark muscle shirt and army pants. His arms were enormous, pure muscle. Ex-military, I guessed. Or maybe something worse.
The silence stretched on until it became an almost feasible sensation. Finally, I worked up the courage to speak.
“So, what am I-?”
“First rule,” he cut me off again. “You only speak when spoken to.”
When I didn’t react, he glared at me. I swallowed hard before I nodded.
“Good. Second rule, you do everything I tell you, no questions.”
He paused, his eyes growing a tad bit narrower, sharper.
“Third rule. You tell anyone what we do, I’ll kill you.”
Again, I nodded frantically. His eyes rested on me for a moment longer, as if he was sizing me up. Then he turned back to the wheel and started the truck. That’s how I started to work with Mikhail.
For the first minutes, we drove in silence. Then, without even looking at me, he explained the job. To make it short, Mikhail was a contracted courier. One of the best.
“Express Delivery Service,” he said with a big grin on his face.
What it meant was simple. We were transporting goods from one place to another. That’s all he said. The goods? Didn’t matter. I didn’t need to know. The pay was good, that’s what was important.
“Not like you see any of that money. Goes straight to Yuri.”
Our first stop was a beverage shop near a small town in the middle of nowhere. Mikhail stopped the truck and got out. When I tried to do the same, he turned around.
“You stay,” he ordered.
With that, he made his way inside. What the hell? Was he getting himself a beer? I watch him. He was walking normally, but I saw how he carried himself. Ready at any moment. For anything. Then I noticed the outline of a gun in his back pocket. Fuck, what the hell had I gotten myself involved in?
For five seemingly endless minutes, I sat there, sweating bullets, waiting for a gunshot, for him to come back, gun in hand, ready to drive off. Instead, he came back, opened the back of the truck, and told me to get out. A moment later, a bald Eastern European dude followed him out. I could tell right away that this guy wasn’t a regular employee. He was trouble.
Finally, a nervous-looking young man brought out the first of half a dozen unmarked wooden crates and sat them down next to the truck.
“Load them,” Mikhail snapped at me. “Safely. You drop one, you pay for all.”
I lifted the first crate. Shit, these things were heavy. Booze, maybe? Hell, I could live with smuggling alcohol. As I loaded the crates, Mikhail and the bald guy stepped aside, lit a cigarette, and began talking in Russian. When the man noticed me staring, he turned to me.
“You too slow. Get a move on, suka!” he yelled, his Russian accent even thicker.
Then he started laughing and turned back to Mikhail.
Once finished loading, Mikhail showed me how to secure the crates with tension belts. Then he left me to finish the job, or rather, try. It took me half an hour with Mikhail and his client, both ridiculing me. I wanted to snap back at them, ask what the fuck their problem was, but knowing who I’d be insulting made it much, much easier to keep quiet. When I’d secured the crates, we got back in the truck, and without another word, we were off.
Soon we crossed the empty border patrol station into the Czech Republic. Two hours later, we arrived at an old industrial area on the edge of an abandoned town. As soon as Mikhail parked the car, two men started walking towards us.
“Those are the brothers, Otik and Juro. Old friends,” he said, flashing a grin that was a tad bit too wide.
As the two of them came closer, I couldn’t help but stare. What the hell was wrong with them? They wore identical tracking suits, but couldn’t have been more different. Otik was the older of the two, and much fatter than his brother. He greeted Mikhail, while the other, Juro, hung back. That guy gave me the creeps. He was lanky to the point of being emaciated, standing behind his brother in silence, shuffling his feet and eying me curiously.
“What you waiting for!?” Mikhail screamed at me.
For a second, I was dumbfounded, but then I scrambled out of the truck and began unloading the crates. Juro still hadn’t said a word, but started carrying them inside. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was definitely something wrong with him. The way he walked, the way his limbs moved, and that half-empty smile as he eyed the crates… All of it was wrong. For a second, I could’ve sworn he had an erection.
I looked away, telling myself to focus on nothing but unloading. While I was busy, Mikhail handed Otik an envelope. He tore it open, greedily counted the contents, then smiled and nodded at Mikhail. Money, of course. After A few more words, Mikhail jumped back in the truck and waited for me to finish.
Back on the road, I had no clue what had just happened. Thinking back to the brothers, as Mikhail called them, I couldn’t make sense of them. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last time I saw them.
I assumed we’d head straight back to Germany, and maybe I’d get some rest. Instead, Mikhail drove us deeper into the Czech Republic. That’s how my first weeks of working with Mikhail went. Riding his truck, loading and unloading crates, but most importantly, keeping my mouth shut.
We were on the streets sixteen hours a day. We didn’t stop anywhere to stay the night, but slept in the truck. When it came to food, it was either the diner type or instant noodles. I didn’t get to go home for weeks at a time, and when I did, it was never more than a day.
Over time, Mikhail got a bit more talkative, and I found out my job was more than just loading and unloading crates.
“If it’s only me in truck, police might get suspicious. With pussy like you around, no one thinks of trouble,” he said, laughing his ass off.
I couldn’t believe it. So I was a scapegoat. I knew what it meant. If anything went wrong, and we got caught red-handed? Guess who’d take the fall? After he finished explaining, I asked him how long I was supposed to work for him, but of course, he didn’t give me a straight answer.
“Until your debt is paid.”
Work was always the same. Just loading and unloading crates, never knowing what we were transporting. Considering the money Mikhail was paid, it was clear it wasn’t common goods. I was sure it was drugs or other contraband. Hell, it might have been weapons.
For a month and a half, my life went on like that. A few times, I almost dropped a crate, but, thankfully, it never happened. I guess it was because of Mikhail’s clients. All of them looked like serious trouble and were probably armed. The prospect of getting a bullet between the eyes sure keeps you hyper-focused.
The mistake I made was much worse than dropping a crate.
Mikhail had stopped the truck in a resting area on a Polish Autobahn. It was two in the morning, and he went to grab some cigarettes and something to eat.
Once he was inside, I got out of the truck. For the past half hour, I’d heard a crate shifting in the back. Either Mikhail hadn’t noticed, or he was ignoring it. I’d thought about telling him, but he had this damned rule of me keeping my mouth shut. I’d gotten a bloody nose twice already, so I kept quiet. Still, I was worried about the goods getting damaged or even falling off the truck. After all, it would be my fault.
Being the scared idiot I was, I went to the back to check. One of the tension belts had come loose, causing a crate to slide to the side. I knew our destination was only an hour or two away, but I didn’t want to risk it. For all I knew, I’d already be in trouble for not securing them right the first time.
So I jumped in the back, pushed the crate back in place, and started re-fastening it. Right at then, someone called out to me in Polish. I was on edge, my hands were sweaty, and was about to tell them to fuck off.
I closed my mouth when I saw two police officers approaching me. The color drained from my face, and I began trembling. Dammit, you idiot, keep it together. My mind was racing. They must’ve seen me rummage in the back of the truck, a shitty old truck, full of unmarked crates. They knew something didn’t add up. Shit, did they know we’re smugglers?
“Eh… everything’s fine, just checking if the crates are probably secured,” I stammered, trying my hardest to keep my voice from cracking.
They didn’t say a word, and just watched me. Then one of them said something in Polish.
“Only English or German,” I said, barely keeping it together.
“What are you loading?” one of them asked.
Shit, I couldn’t think straight. What the hell was I supposed to tell them? I had no clue what was in those crates. I didn’t even know what they were usually used for. Was it booze? Construction materials? Tools? With each passing second, the officers were growing more suspicious.
“Only alcohol,” I blurted.
One of them raised an eyebrow before he grinned and translated it to his colleague. They exchanged a few more words, eying me the whole time. Oh god, please go away.
“No,” the same officer said, grinning.
He shoved me aside while his colleague jumped onto the back of the truck, flashlight in hand, inspecting the crates one by one. I stood there, frozen, unable to do anything. How the hell had this happened? You goddamn idiot!
Just then, Mikhail appeared from behind the truck, cigarette in hand, stopping right in front of the officer and me.
“What’s problem, officer?” he asked, flashing a casual smile.
“Who are you?” the officer next to me asked, surprised, his hand wandering to the holster over his hip.
“I am driver,” Mikhail replied, calm as ever.
“What are you shipping?” the officer asked, in a much more serious tone.
Mikhail said something in Polish. The officer in the back stopped and turned around. I could see the surprise on his face. Then he asked something else. I caught a Russian name. Mikhail nodded, then moved slowly to the driver’s seat, keeping his hands visible. He pulled out an envelope filled with cash and handed it to the officers. They counted it, nodded, and walked away.
Before I could make sense of what had just happened, Mikhail hit me square in the face. Pain exploded as I hit the ground. Blood streamed from my nose, filling my mouth with an irony taste. Mikhail had hit me before, but never this hard. I stared at him with wide eyes, half-expecting him to pull out his gun and end it right here. Instead, he cursed at me in Russian. When I didn’t respond, he repeated himself.
“Close back and get in, stupid idiot!”
Once I sat in the passenger seat, Mikhail threw me a dirty rag.
“Clean yourself up!”
As I wiped the blood from my face, he started the truck, and we drove off.
“This comes from your pay! Listen, you don’t touch anything when we out in open!”
“Okay,” I mumbled, nodding, half-expecting another hit.
His knuckles were white around the steering wheel, his face twisted in anger. For a few more minutes, he kept cursing under his breath before he spoke up again.
“Can’t take that route anymore. They will wait for us, bleed us dry. Fuck! What you think you doing?”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. I considered telling him the cops asked me what was in the back, but then I opted for the truth.
“I heard a noise and thought a crate had gotten loose. Didn’t want anything to get damaged or fall off, so I went to refasten it.”
For a moment, Mikhail’s eyes probed me, trying to figure out if I was lying. Then he sighed.
“Okay, you not total idiot. You had right idea, but you still stupid. Next time you hear anything again, you tell me. Don’t just touch things. If police finds out what inside, we in trouble. Serious trouble.”
Well, duh, if the cops find out we’re smuggling contraband, we’re fucked. Not that I didn’t know that already. At least, that’s what I thought we were transporting. Five weeks later, I should find out what it really was.
It was night, and we were driving through the backwaters of the Czech Republic, on our way to the brothers. Business as usual. For two hours we followed nothing but narrow roads, and hidden paths, driving through so many half-empty villages I’d lost count.
Then, out of nowhere, a police car appeared behind us. Mikhail stopped the truck right away. When the officer stepped up to his window, I knew he’d be problem. His face was hard, his expression serious, and as soon as he laid eyes on Mikhail, he was suspicious.
He aimed his flashlight directly at his face and said something in Czech. Mikhail got out of the truck, and when the officer’s eyes came to rest on me, I did the same. The officer started questioning Mikhail. I didn’t understand a word, but it was clear he wanted to know what we were transporting. Mikhail gave one of our standard answers: clast, Czech for alcohol.
The officer smirked and ordered Mikhail to open the back of the truck. When Mikhail hesitated, the officer drew his gun and made us unload one of the crates. The officer’s gaze was fixed on Mikhail, entirely ignoring me. He knew who was the threat here.
Mikhail muttered a few words, and I understood he wanted me to open the crate. I went to the front, got a crowbar, and began removing the large nails that held the crate shut. When the front popped open, two black plastic bags fell onto the ground. The officer’s expression hardened, his mouth becoming a single, hard line. He pointed the gun straight at Mikhail, barking another order at him.
“Open them,” Mikhail said, looking at me.
I blinked, realizing what he meant. Oh fuck no. Even from where I stood, I could see enough to know what was inside. The shape, the outline, everything. But what was I supposed to do? I went forward, gripped the plastic, and tore it open. It was just a small tear, but enough to reveal a face staring back at me. Pale, lifeless, its empty eyes staring at nothing. I’d know what was inside, but I still stumbled back, gagging, nearly vomiting.
The cop barely looked at me, his gun still trained on Mikhail, while he approached the sacks. When he saw the corpse, he took out his radio. Right then, Mikhail yelled something in Czech. I didn’t understand, but the officer jerked toward me, gun raised, eyes burning with shock and anger. My mind went blank. This was it. I was dead.
Then the cop’s face exploded.
Blood, bone and brain matter rained down on me. I fell to the ground, shocked to be still alive. Then confusion turned into panic, and I started screaming. Mikhail was beside me in an instant, putting his heavy hand over my mouth.
“Stop screaming idiot, you alive.”
I lay there, trembling, crying, trying to scrape the pieces of what was once a man’s head off my clothes, my face. Once I could move, Mikhail pulled me up. He handed me a rag to clean off the worst while he stuffed the officer’s corpse into the crate. He called me to help him load it, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, frozen, staring. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, and pushed the crate back onto the truck himself. Then he told me to get in while he refastened it. A moment later, we were driving again.
After only ten minutes on the road, he turned left, steering the truck into a forest before he stopped.
“Why are we-?“ I started.
“Shut up,” Mikhail snapped at me.
My heart pounded in my chest, my eyes grew wide, and my hands started shaking. Oh dear go. He was going to kill me. I’d seen what was in the crate. I’d seen him kill the cop. He was going to get rid of me, too! He leaned back in his seat, and I saw him reach for something. The gun! Frantically, I tore at my seatbelt, but in my panic, I couldn’t get open. Then something hit me. Not a bullet, but a bag.
“Change. Can’t have you run around all bloody.”
I stared at him in utter confusion before I realized what was in the bag. My entire body was numb, and my legs almost buckled as I stepped out of the car. Then I changed into the clothes Mikhail had handed me. They were a few sizes too big for me and reeked, but I didn’t complain. No, I was glad to get out of the blood- and brain-splattered ones I was wearing. Once done, I stuffed my clothes into the bag and hid it behind my seat.
“Otik and Juro take care of it. The cop, the clothes, everything. Cost more, but whatever. Common procedure. Not first time this happened.”
Not the first…? What was he-? May brain didn’t work, but after a few moments it clicked. I was a decoy, a distraction. He’d waited for the right moment to shout something, forcing the officer to look at me. Probably something like ‘Yes, shoot him!’ If Mikhail had been a second late, I’d be dead, too. I was alive by sheer dumb luck. Others who’d worked for him before probably hadn’t been so lucky.
Common procedure, he’d said. Watching him now, from the corner of my eye, I knew he wouldn’t have cared if I’d died there. I’d thought I was an alibi, someone to take the blame. That was only part of it. If necessary, I was here to take a bullet for him, or worse, die for him. Hot seething anger rose inside of me, but what could I do? I couldn’t say a damned word. All I could do was to sit in his truck, fists clenched. God, I wanted to jump that guy, to beat his face in, but I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance. My thoughts were interrupted when Mikhail spoke up.
“It’s safe route. Usually no police. Could be someone ratted me out? Wasn’t careful. My fault.”
He hadn’t apologized directly, and I doubted I’d ever hear him say the word sorry. Still, that he’d said something at all…
After that, he started the track, and we drove in silence until we reached the brothers.
Mikhail was right. The brothers had no problem taking care of things. No questions asked. Hell, Otik even joked about our run-in with the police. By now, I knew what their job was. I could see the chimneys and the old furnaces. Out here, no one would give a damn about what they did.
As I heaved out a crate, Juro’s weird smile and behavior came back to me. When I thought back to what I’d seen that day, I felt sick to my stomach. After the last crate was unloaded, I found him standing right beside me.
“Too bad, thought you’d be in one of ‘em by now. Oh, the fun I’d have…”
I cringed, disgusted by his half-empty smile and lolling tongue.
“Fucking shit!” I cursed.
He only laughed, but kept watching me, grinning until we finally left.
“He one sick fuck,” Mikhail said. “Knows what he doing, though.”
Back on the road, Mikhail told me our next destination was Bratislava. An old acquaintance of his needed a prompt delivery. The journey was long, but the pay was worth it. I kept quiet. I knew damn well I wouldn’t see any of that money.
That was not the worst, though. Now that I knew what we were transporting, I was a shaky, anxiety-riddled mess. Drugs or other contraband would’ve been bad enough, but this… this was something else. What about me, though? What would happen if his clients found out I knew? They’d shot me on the spot, stuff me in one of those crates, and that would be it. There was also Mikhail. Would he get rid of me, eventually?
For two weeks, I couldn’t think straight. Every time he stopped the truck, I thought this was it. My time’s up. But it never happened. In time, I grew numb to it all. The guns, the crates, what was in them… I guess I accepted whatever was waiting for me.
In time, I even picked up some Czech and Polish, if only to understand what Mikhail was saying to his clients, as well as the cops.
Still, it was a job. After a while, it felt like any other.
It shouldn’t stay that way.
I’d been working with Mikhail for half a year when it happened. We were on our way back from Belarus to Poland. Turns out, Mikhail didn’t just work with the brothers. He knew a few other people who also specialized in corpse disposal.
While Mikhail drove the truck, and I was going through a Polish lesson, I heard a knock from the back. At first, I thought I’d imagined things, but then a heavy thud followed. I glanced over at Mikhail. He was fuming. I’d never seen him this angry.
“What was-?”
“Nothing,” he cut me off, gritting his teeth.
We drove on in silence until Mikhail abruptly pulled off the road.
“Go check,” he ordered.
At the back of the truck, the sounds were unmistakable. Someone was moving inside one of the crates. I even heard a muffled voice. I went back to Mikhail.
“Someone’s alive back there,” I stammered.
Mikhail’s expression darkened as he cursed in Russian and spat out the window. He sat there for a few minutes, silent. Then he pulled out his gun. I froze. He was going to finish the job himself. At least I thought so. Instead, he looked at me and held out the gun.
“Wait, what are you…? No! You can’t… I mean…”
Mikhail’s face hardened.
“You do it.”
I stared at the gun, then back at him, unable to move.
“Take it!” he screamed.
My hands trembled as I took the gun and stumbled to the back of the truck. I stood there, listening to the thuds and the muffled pleading from inside. No, I can’t do it. I can’t fucking do it! That was a person in there. How can he expect me to just…!? I stared freaking out, couldn’t breathe, and my heart was pounding in my chest. The gun felt like it weight a ton.
“What take so goddamn long?” he shouted in an angry voice.
A moment later, I heard him step out of the truck, and saw him walk up to me.
“I can’t freaking do it,” I pleaded with him, tears streaming down my face.
“You have to,” Mikhail said, his thick Russian accent colder than ever.
His face was completely devoid of emotions.
“N-no. It’s impossible. I can’t kill-“
“Then you die.”
He said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
I stood there, sweat dripping down my forehead. How did it come to this? What the hell was I supposed to do? I couldn’t shoot someone! I wasn’t a freaking murderer! Fuck this! Fuck Mikhail, fuck Yuri, and fuck this guy in there, too!
“Dyes-yat. Dyev-vat. Vo-syem,” he suddenly started.
What the hell was he doing now?
“Syem. Shest.”
The memories of my sixth grade Russian class came back to me. The numbers. He was counting down from ten.
“Chye-tir-ye. Tree.”
Oh god, what do I do? What the fuck do I do?
Then, completely out of it, not sure what I was even doing, I pointed the gun at Mikhail. He grinned and stopped counting.
“You won’t,” he sneered. “Not someone like you.”
“Shut the fuck up!” I screamed, my voice cracking.
“What you gonna do? You gonna shot me? Take my truck and run?”
I stayed silent. I had no fucking clue what I was going to do, and Mikhail knew it. He started laughing and took a step closer.
“Stop or I’ll shot!”
My hands were sweaty, my whole body was trembling. Mikhail just grinned wider.
“You won’t. You pussy.”
I said nothing, willing my body to stop shaking. Then I pointed the gun straight at his face.
“I won’t shoot that guy in there! I’m not a murderer!”
“And you prove it how? By shooting me?”
This time, I couldn’t help but give him a frustrated, half-crazed laugh.
“If that’s what it takes…”
I’d wanted it to sound intimidating, but my voice was quiet, meek, barely more than a whisper. Mikhail laughed again before he lunged at me. In my panic, I squeezed my eyes shut, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. Nothing else. I opened my eyes just in time to see Mikhail’s giant fist smashing into my face.
I woke up in the passenger seat, pain flooding through me. Jesus Christ, that guy hits like a truck! Then I realized what had just happened.
“What the fuck?!” I yelled, pulling on the seatbelt, trying to free myself.
“Stop,” Mikhail said in a low voice, pushing me back into the seat as he parked the truck on the roadside.
“What’s going on? Why did you-?”
“It was test.”
“Test!? What the kind of test… are you-?”
“To see what person you are.”
I stared at him, utterly lost. He sighed, leaning back in his seat.
“There’s enough bad in this world, enough people like me. This here, all this, is bad. I wanted see what you do. Would you shoot man just because I tell you to?”
“That’s why you handed me the gun and all that?”
When he nodded, my eyes grew wide.
“What if I’d shot you? Or if the gun wouldn’t have-?”
“No bullets. You really are idiot.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, and soon he joined in. He was right, I was such an idiot.
“So what if I’d decided to do it?”
“Then there’d be one more bag in crate,” he answered, matter-of-factly.
“What happened to-?” I asked, but my voice trailed off when I saw the look on his face.
Cold and hard as usual, but now with a tinge of something else: regret.
I worked with Mikhail for three more months. Not much changed between us. We talked little, and I didn’t learn more about him. I guess, that’s just who he is.
Then, one day, he stopped the truck on a deserted German road.
“Get out of car.”
I did as I was told, and he followed. We were in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know what was happening. Mikhail stepped up to me and finally spoke.
Yuri, he explained, had no intention of letting me go. I’d keep working for Mikhail for as long as I was useful. When I wasn’t… well, he’d find a way to get rid of me. I wouldn’t be the first to meet that kind of end.
I watched as Mikhail reached into his pocket, my body tensing up.
“No worry. I won’t shoot. If I wanted, you’d be dead already.”
Instead of his gun, he pulled out an envelope and a small slip of paper, and handed them to me. The envelope was filled with money.
“What are you-?”
“Shut up! Don’t make me take back, okay?”
I looked at him, dumbstruck.
“You don’t belong in this world. You not bad person, but if you stay, you become like me. Blood on hands, blood you can never wash off.”
He looked away, lost in thought for a moment.
“In envelope is enough money for a while. On note is name of friend. He give you work. Good and honest work.”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I stepped forward to hug him, but he immediately pushed me back.
“Don’t.”
In an instant, his expression grew stern.
“I know how you ended up here. Gambling. Loans. Easy money.”
I looked away, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. I tried to say something, but before I could, he got a hold of my collar.
“If you do shit like that again, I come and shoot you myself. Understood?”
I gasped, nodding quickly.
“Yes. I get it. I won’t do it again.”
“Good.”
He looked at me once more.
“Now fuck off, before I regret it.”
With that, he jumped back in his truck, and was gone a moment later. I stood there, waiting, half-sure he’d return, and tell me it was another test. After half an hour had passed, however, I knew he wouldn’t. This was it.
I took out my phone and checked the address he’d given me. Then I began walking.
Good and honest work. It didn’t sound too bad.
