Chapter 3 - Off Rhythm
1550 Words
Chapter 3 – Off Rhythm
Nik ducked into the cargo hold, clipboard under his arm. He had done hundreds of cargo loads like this, knew the rhythm of the men, the weight of each pallet, the sound of straps settling.
Most of the crew moved in perfect sync. They had been doing this together for years.
Nik trusted them.
Yet something pulled at his attention.
One pallet slightly off-line. A strap hung looser than it should.
Nik frowned.
He didn’t panic.
He adjusted the pallet, straightened the straps, checked the load.
Clean. Back in order.
Alexei pulled his understated navy-blue Audi 5 to the side of the airfreight cargo hangar.
Bright runway lights cut through the fog, reflecting off steel beams and wet asphalt. Saturday
nights were the best time to move cargo.
The hum of forklifts and the thud of lowering pallets were the soundtrack of money and labor.
Union men appreciated the late hours. Extra pay.
Pulling the collar up of his unbuttoned blue pea coat around his neck, Alexei checked his
private burner phone tucked against his Sig Sauer.
He sent a quick text on his regular cell, the one he didn’t care if monitored: “Here.”
Nik, Alexei’s big bear of a friend, squinched his face as he always did when interrupted,
an expression Alexei had known since their boyhood in Kyiv.
Clipboard tucked under his arm, Nik walked into the shadows where Alexei stood.
“Got the load for the new clients in front of supplies for IRC,” Nik said.
“I’ll call Dee to get those unloaded faster than usual when freight arrives,” Alexei replied.
If he could, he would have traveled in the cargo himself to make sure everything went smoothly.
Those hands-on security days were over.
He confirmed the first of multi-transfer of $10 million into the cold wallet. Settled.
Secure.
He looked up at Nik and nodded. Nik understood the signal: the freight was good to go.
“That man from the bar,” Nik said, pausing.
“Anton?” Alexei added.
“Yeah. He was here. By himself. Watching. I was in the cargo hold and when I came out gone.”
A tense silence passed.
“Do you trust him?” Nik asked.
“Not yet. We’ll see,” Alexei replied.
The last pallet slid into place.
Alexei handed Nik stacks of hundred-dollar bills for the workers and a thick manila envelope for the pilots.
Nik lifted his chin, the type of salute that carried the quiet strength of a loyal friend.
Nik started back toward the crew, then did an about-face. “Sandy Smith, ER rotation at
Beth Israel Hospital.”
Alexei raised an eyebrow. “Nik, you’re a regular James Bond.”
Somewhat unsure when he asked Nik to approach the birthday party group at Sapphire
who the “Polynesian” woman was that had been with them earlier.
But Nik, in his fumbling, big goofy way, got the name of the woman who had held his hand last night in the alley.
Sandy Smith. The name stayed with him.
Alexei walked toward the cargo hold as Nik moved among the union men, stacks of crisp
bills in hand.
The rustle of bills, punctuated the low hum of the plane engines. Alexei smiled,
nodded, and quietly thanked each man personally on behalf of Shevchik Med supplies.
Their eyes lit up, brief flashes of pride and loyalty reflecting in the dim hangar light.
Each handshake felt routine, but Alexei’s instincts flicked to the edges of his vision.
Everything seemed right, but the smallest shift, the faintest hesitation, could signal otherwise.
The last envelope was handed off, and the men began filtering toward the exit. Most disappeared into the night fog.
Almost everyone… except one figure, moving slightly off rhythm near the edge of the hold.
Alexei reacted without hesitation.
He stepped behind the man and pressed his Sig Sauer into the small of his back. A firm,
decisive push.
He didn’t enjoy the fear.
He noticed the shift.
Once the rush sharpened him.
Now it felt like sand grinding between his teeth.
The hangar was quiet now—just the hollow, steady low hum of the plane engines cycling
on standby, a vibration thrumming up through the metal floor.
The pilots waited in the cockpit
for his all-clear.
No one would see this.
Nik disappeared deeper into the cargo hold, flashlight beam slicing across boxes labeled
Medshek and IRC.
He bent down and lifted something between his fingers.
A tracker. Nik handed it into Alexei’s free hand.
Russian manufacture.
Not subtle.
Not sloppy.
A message.
Someone wanted him to know, not what they were doing, but that they could.
Alexei pressed the barrel harder into the man’s spine, “How many trackers placed?”
The man’s whole body vibrated with fear. He wasn’t a professional. Alexei could feel
that instantly.
“Don’t kill me,” he whimpered.
Alexei kept his voice even. Calm broke people faster than shouting.
“Three.”
“Where?”
Nik appeared again, raising one tracker he’d found. Alexei gave the man a shove.
“Show him.”
The man stumbled forward, hunched, and pointed to a gap between two boxes labeled
Medshek Amoxicillin.
Nik reached in and easily pulled out a second device.
Alexei’s jaw tightened.
Amateurs always hesitated.
Professionals didn’t.
He wondered, not for the first time, how long it had been since he was one or the other.
“Last one?”
"I—I think in the pallet I loaded in the back…”
“You think?”Alexei pushed him again. “Get back there. Find it.”
Nik drew his Glock and shoved the man toward the rear section, “Move.”
The man reached the pallet and slid his arm between the straps—right where Nik had
earlier tightened the load.
The strap snapped downward with a grinding buckle.
The man screamed. Raw, animal pain, his arm caught between the tightening weight of cargo.
The sound, wet, sharp, a living thing snapping, barely stirred Alexei.
Nik leaned in. “Got it?”
“f**k my arm—”
Alexei stepped closer, eyes cold. “What’s your name?
“Marco.”
“Who told you to do this, Marco?”
“f**k, I don’t know,” the man sobbed.
Nik tightened the strap again. The man’s scream echoed against the cargo walls.
“Some guys. f*****g three of them. At Dunny’s last night. I went to take a piss. One followed.”
“Guys?” Alexei asked.
“Three. f**k, never seen them. Dunny’s isn’t… isn’t a local bar anymore. Not since foreign cargo crews started coming in.”
Alexei listened carefully.
Three men.
Foreign accents.
Money offered easily.
Confidence too casual.
Someone was testing him. Probing his perimeter.
Not for weakness. For reaction.
“How’d they know you were working tonight?” Alexei asked.
“f**k me. Told the bartender I’d settle my tab after tonight’s shift,” the man choked out.
“I was filling in for Rico. f**k Rico’s gonna kill me. Don’t f**k up he said.”
“Rico’s not going to kill you,” Nik said flatly.
“You are…” the man trembled.
“Tell me about these three,” Alexei said.
“They f*****g sounded like—like Arnold.”
“Arnold?” Nik repeated.
“Yeah… Schwarzenegger. Like you...”
East Europeans sounded the same to too many American ears. Alexei knew that.
The three again. The three who didn’t show up at Sapphire’s last night. The two Igors and Boris.
Nik tugged the strap once more. The man shrieked.
“They wore sweats… hoodies… jeans—ahh—f**k—”
“How much?” Alexei asked.
“Five thousand.” Another wail. “Said it was easy. Just place the devices in the front boxes of the
last pallets.”
Nik loosened the strap. “Get your arm out. Device in hand.”
The man dragged his mangled arm free and slumped onto the cargo floor, gasping.
Nik placed the final tracker into Alexei’s palm.
Alexei turned the three devices over, studying them.
They were too good—too exact—to be mercenary trash. Manufacturing lines he recognized.
Workmanship he’d seen before.
Hands he once trusted.
A cold knot formed beneath his ribs. Not fear. Recognition.
Alexei crouched to eye level with the trembling man. “You’re going to live. You’re going to
pay your bar tab and keep the rest. And you’re going to tell whoever sent you that you did what
they asked but got your arm caught. Nothing more.”
The man nodded frantically.
“Nik—drop him at an ER far from here.”
Nik holstered his Glock and dragged the man toward the gate, already calling the
driver Luca.
Alexei watched until they vanished into the fog.
Then he set the three trackers gently onto the International Red Cross shipment.
A message in return.
He texted the pilots: All clear.
Stepping off the ramp, Alexie watched the cargo jet taxi, turn, and lift into
the night sky.
Silence settled inside him.
Not peace.
Just the quiet of a man who understood:
Someone had made a move.
Now he would make one too.
And he wouldn’t wait long.
- Writer
