Nikolai
“Where is he?”I march through the warehouse toward the back where more delicate matters are seen to.
Yogi leads me through the maze of pallets of shipping containers.
“He’s not real talkative.” There’s a hint of glee in his tone. I think he enjoys this part of his job more than most. He cracks his knuckles as we turn down a corridor and down a flight of stairs. There are more storage rooms in the basement of the warehouse, and he takes me to the last room on the left.
Boris stands outside of it, scrolling through his phone. The stench of blood and sweat floats heavily in the air, but he doesn’t seem affected by it.
“Has he said anything yet?” I ask, peeking through the six-inch square window to see a man hunched over in a chair. He’s been worked on a little already.
“No. He says he doesn’t know who the supplier is. Says he got the stuff from someone off the street, but doesn’t know the name, and doesn’t remember where he bought it,” Boris explains.
“You pick him up where the other asshole brought you?” Looking down the hall, I don’t see any other rooms being used. The doors are all slightly open.
“Same spot,” Yogi says.
“Where’s he now?” I ask.
“We let him go once we had this one,” Boris explains. “Seemed more scared to be let go than to be kept.”
“And this one here.” I jerk a thumb at the door. “Did he have any more of our stuff on him when you picked him up?”
Yogi shakes his head. “No. He said he ran out a few days ago and hasn’t been able to find more. Seems his clients prefer it to whatever crap he was selling before he got a hold of ours.”
“Because it’s quality,” Boris adds.
“What’s his name?” I ask as I reach for the door handle.
“His street name is Viper, but his real name is Percy.”
I shake my head with a chuckle. Poor bastard.
The metal hinges creak when I jerk the door open. Dealer boy doesn’t even look up at me when I step inside. It’s hot in here, which only makes the stench of him worse. There’s a puddle beneath the chair. Asshole pissed himself.
“Viper.” I stand in front of him. Zip ties bind his hands behind him. He’s wearing an oversized black tank top and a pair of gray basketball shorts. Blood has dried on his cropped blond hair.
“Viper. I’m talking to you.” I kick the leg of the chair.
He mutters something and slowly raises his head. Boris and Yogi have been persuasive, I see.
I lean forward and take a look at the damage. The swelling will go down and bruises will heal, even the cuts will fade away and leave him with scarring he will no doubt use to try to ramp up his street cred. We’ve probably helped this prick with this beating.
“Who are you?” Fear drips from his question.
I suck in a breath and stand back up to my full height; his eyes move to the gun I have holstered at my side. His bottom lip trembles.
“I’m the guy you stole from.”
His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. “I swear, man. I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told those other guys. I bought the shit and sold the shit. I didn’t steal it. I swear I wouldn’t do that.”
I huff. “You sell drugs, Percy. You sell drugs to high school kids from what I hear, but you wouldn’t steal?”
His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard.
“I don’t like when people sell drugs to high school kids.” Even we have standards. No kids. We don’t sell anywhere near schools and no one looking anything like a kid gets their hand on our shit.
“I didn’t steal from you.”