Sokol Has Landed

The jet touched down gently on the wet tarmac. He inhaled sharply as he was shaken awake by the lightly bouncing landing. He opened his eyes and looked around. His blanket had slipped onto the floor and his skin was clammy from the chilly air inside the cabin. He sat up slowly and stretched his legs without touching the seat in front of him with his Timberland boots. He was used to first class, but having an entire jet to himself was a treat, as he usually shared one with about 20 large men.

As the vehicle rolled to a halt, the seatbelt sign turned off with a ding. He slid open his window visor and peered out. The sky was dark. He hoped it was about 9pm, as scheduled. Rain drizzled softly against the glass and fog rolled around the lights on the runway. He unbuckled and stood. Beside his long, comfortable seat was the walkway, then a sofa. On it, his jacket. He picked it up and slipped it over a tight black tee. He grabbed his carry-on from the floor beside the couch: a briefcase filled with papers for choice few eyes.

"Thank you for flying with us, Mr. Kozak," said a voice over the intercom. The captain had made a few announcements regarding turbulence throughout the flight, but the passenger was unnerved. "Your ride is waiting for you outside. Please exit when you're ready."

He rubbed his face, trying to fight off his tiredness, rubbing against the slice on the bridge of his nose that had not healed from the fight he started on the ice a few weeks before.

The stewardess suddenly arrived at the front of the cabin. She drew the curtain and unbolted the jet door. "Have a nice trip," she said smiling politely. He smirked at her coolly. Slight surprise on her face, she pointed at her neck, then his. He looked across the cabin to a mirror on the wall and noticed a red lipstick stain on his neck. He rubbed it off with his palm, then swung the briefcase over his shoulder as he moved to the exit with his free hand in his jean pocket. He winked at her as he passed, and she blushed and looked away.

He tramped down the steps and into the brumous night. The private runway was small with just a few hangars with chained doors, save for the one his jet would be entering. Reflections of lights shimmered on the wet blacktop. He stepped onto the pavement and spotted a man in a suit standing under a light beside a dark green Chevelle.

"Mr. Kozak." He had a gruff voice. He stood, shoulders back, hands crossed over his belt, in a gray suit with a black shirt. His hair was was greased back and dark, matching his short beard and moustache. The light reflected off his Aviators.

"Call me Sokol," said the young man in a thick Russian accent, lowering his briefcase and extending his right hand.

"John," said the stranger, shaking Sokol's hand firmly. "The boys will unload the merchandise. I'm told your, uh, invention is soon to follow." He motioned behind Sokol, where several men were unloading heavy black duffel bags from the jet. "Shall we get going?"

Sokol nodded and entered the car at the motion of his driver. When both men had entered and shut the doors, John reached a hand into the back seat. Sokol flinched, and reached for the door handle. The driver laughed. "Relax, they're not that dangerous."

The Russian turned to look in the back seat. There was a grey blue-nose pitbull napping on a blanket. Sokol scoffed out a laugh, then turned to buckle his seatbelt.

The Buick exited the gated facility and drove down an unmarked road towards the highway. "So, John Wick. I have heard a lot about your work."

"Nothing personal," he remarked, not glancing over.

"I don't mean recently. I know you have done much before. Like Brazilian cartel job?" Sokol whistled low. Sokol was in no way associated with any mafia— he was simply a thief, and a good one, but also a very shrewd when it came to information.