Patterns of Betrayal

(3) First mission

~~

Fog swoop down and curl around the massive buildings by my side. Outdoor vendors down the street disappear behind the thickening mist. A constant stream of people walk in and out of the gloom, appearing and disappearing, one by one.

With long strides and a destination in mind, I walk undisturbed across the dim-lit road.

A wide warehouse steadily rises above me as I approach its entrance at a swift pace. I eye the entrance as I near it, silently wondering if it is locked or not. In my pockets, I fiddle with the tools from Mother's lock pick set that will, if used correctly, eventually allow me in either way. Wasting no time on simple formalities, I remove the cigarette hanging between my lips and flick it to the ground, crushing it with the tip of my black trainers before trying the handle to the door of the storage building.

It is open.

In disappointment of not being able to try out my new set of tools, I press the handle all the way down and let myself in.

Supplies of lumber are stacked on top of each other on rows of aisles that stretch all the way up to the ceiling, stored for future use. On the far end of the room, two men in navy blue t-shirts and matching pants are talking loudly. I pull out a piece of paper from the back pocket of my jeans and memorize the face printed on it. A man with a disheveled beard around his lips and bushy eyebrows stare back at me. A small mole sits right below the crease of his right eye, and his hair is buzzed.

Mother's client.

I put the picture back in my pocket. The cool blade of the knife placed on the inside of my jacket thumps against my abdomen as I place my hands in the warmth of my jacket pockets.

I blow a few strands of hair out of my eyes before eventually tucking the short locks behind my ear. Ever since cutting it short seven years ago, I've maintained only shorter haircuts. And now, at sixteen, it is no different. However, being away from home for missions and sleeping in low-budget motels, has resulted in my hairstyle not being prioritized. As for the remainder of my assignments, a bobby pin will have to be a necessity to purchase.

I adjust the backpack straps over my shoulders, making sure that the clasp over my chest is locked so the backpack won't fall off.

A soft squeaky sound echoes off the walls each time my shoes make contact with the concrete floor as I close the distance between me and Mother's client.

The men turned silent the second I moved in their direction, and now they only stare as I approach them. My eyes find the client immediately to be the man on the left, holding onto the handle of a forklift. I keep my gaze focused and do not allow myself to acknowledge the other man as I step into their sight. My legs halt some paces away from the workers.

Mother's client shift from one foot to another as he appraises me.

"What do you want?" he questions warily.

I answer with the rehearsed reply that Mother taught me three days ago.

"Your loan was extracted four months ago. You had two months to pay the amount back, plus interest, but failed."

I don't let my voice waver as the man clenches his jaw in discomfort now that he realises the reason for my visit. He rolls his eyes at me as I continue.

"You then asked for an additional six weeks but has failed to pay back with the increased interest. Again."

"Calm down, girl. You can tell your mommy that her money will be back by the beginning of next month. I'm working now to earn that money," the man gestures around the building. The other man stands warily to the side.