The warehouse was dark--as black as pitch in most places, but security lights dimly illuminated the hallways and corners that Vitus now found himself lost within. He imagined himself as a modern Theseus, conquering the labyrinthine paths of a massive utilitarian building. The thought of a monster waiting for him inside, though, was admittedly unnerving. He soon found himself at the door to an office, where three men lay sprawled out on the ground. Vitus hoped they were unconscious, but he honestly didn't expect it to be true.
"There you are," said Philip, emerging from the shadows.
Vitus jumped, and his finger rattled against the trigger of his pistol. Luckily he gained his composure instead of firing blindly at the source of the voice.
"Sorry," said Philip. He then pointed at a set of heavy double doors connected to the security office. "The main storage room is through here, but we might have a problem. The doors are sealed. I might be able to override them, but I expect that meddling with them at all will trigger an alarm. Before I open them, I need to know that you're ready."
Vitus searched for the proper response. He knew what Philip was actually asking him--if he was ready to kill. It was a question he had been asking himself after the night in the alleyway, and until now, he'd never been able to answer it. This was the moment of transition. Vitus realized that if he said yes, he'd never be the same person he once was--Vitus Bethel, mild-mannered antique-dealer. But would this stop him from being a good person? He knew that only his actions could determine that, and if the ability to take another life meant crossing the line of moral ambiguity, Vitus was finally ready to cross that threshold. After all, the world isn't always black and white, and the time for romanticism had come and gone. The time had come for a revolution in Vitus' own life, and he made his choice.
"I'm ready," he said.
"Good," said Philip. "Be quick."
As Vitus tucked away his pistol, Philip pulled both of his free from their holsters and typed away at a console using only his little fingers. Vitus could hear the sound of a latch releasing within the doors, and he pushed them open to reveal a wide room filled with antiques. Vitus felt at home as he jogged down the aisles. Everything was arranged carefully, like exhibits in a museum.
One entire row was devoted to furniture, divided up by decade--the oldest being a late Victorian era armchair, unvarnished and simple. Vitus may have found Malcolm Ivanovich himself to be a murderous psychopath, but he certainly admired the man's taste in antiquities. As he dashed down each aisle, casting quick glances all around him, numbers and figures ran through his head, estimating values based on factors like age, condition, rarity, and demand of each piece in Ivanovich's collection. He had already made mental notes of several items he felt were worth taking, including the aforementioned armchair, a signed first edition of G. K. Chesterton's The Man who was Thursday, several Chinese vases from varying dynasties, a drawer full of gold pocket watches and other assorted time and distance-based instruments, and a glass case filled with more jade figurines carved in the likenesses of Biblical characters. There were, of course, pieces worth far more in this particular collection, but Vitus also took into consideration the size and maneuverability of every item. He knew they didn't have much time left, so he based his decisions on what would hurt Ivanovich most both financially and emotionally and could be carried in a single trip.
"Vitus," yelled Philip from the doorway. He held the radio in his hands. "We're about to have trouble. We need to move."
"I'm ready," Vitus replied.
Philip ran into the room, placing several small packages along the aisles. Vitus began placing the vases in a heavy cardboard box and then placed it with a small stack of books on the seat of the late Victorian armchair, ready for Philip to haul back to the boat. As he ran back toward the jade figurines to prepare a load for himself, something caught Vitus' eye. Behind a nearby glass case was a small derringer pistol. Vitus felt an impulse take control of his body, and before he knew it, he had shattered the glass with his elbow and pocketed the gun. He then loaded the case of jade atop the drawer of gold watches and joined Philip, who was waiting at a large overhead door with the loaded armchair in his hands. Philip kicked the wall, triggering a button that raised the door and exposed the pier beyond.
"Follow me," said Philip, leading the way with the chair hiding most of his torso.
Vitus could see their boat docked at the far end, but escape still felt so far away. Off to the north of the pier, where the road swung around to the rear of the warehouse and joined the dock itself, three cars were heading toward them. Apparently, Ivanovich had invested in more security since his last run-in with Vitus.
"Stay down. Keep behind the crates," Philip told him as they wove through an obstacle course of empty shipping crates and other large objects that were strewn across the pier.
The cars, all of which were black sedans, pulled as far onto the pier as they could, and then three men burst from each one, wearing black suits and carrying identical handguns. They yelled in a language that most definitely was not English and gave chase, pausing every so often to fire off a few rounds.
"Russians," Philip muttered to himself.
Vitus ducked behind an empty metal crate and could hear the sound of bullets ricocheting off the other side and feel the vibration of every shot. The sound of more gunfire erupted from the boat as Jenn and Hayes fired their rifles in rapid succession, suppressing the advance of the Russian security force. As the antique-dealer and his compatriot drew nearer the boat named Bess, Hayes switched on a spotlight that had been bolted to the deck of the boat and shined it at the Russians to blind and distract them while his cohorts ran across the open space between the flock of standing crates and the docked boat. Philip ran first, holding the chair as high as he could without spilling the items bundled into the seat. He crossed a wide plank that led him straight to the deck of the ship, where he proceeded to pull his twin pistols from their holsters and fire wildly back at the Russians to buy Vitus some more time. The antique-dealer, however, was lagging far behind. He emerged from the behind the very last crate, which had contained a very large shipment of tea at one point and still bore the strong fragrance of green tea, and began his mad dash toward safety.
Unfortunately, he did not count on the one Russian to sneak through the maze of the pier unharmed with a gun still in his hand. The Russian yelled and aimed his weapon, and then there came the sound of two gunshots that rang out simultaneously like stereophonic destruction. Jenn had seen the Russian slip in, and as the man pointed his gun at Vitus, she pulled her trigger without further hesitation. The Russian dropped to the ground. This was no shot to the arm or leg; this was a shot to the heart, and for the antique-dealer's partner, so was the moment that followed.
Vitus Bethel stumbled. He'd felt a tingling sensation in his right shoulder, and then a sudden warmth. But it was the force of the blow that knocked him off of his feet and over the side of the pier. The glass case shattered against the edge of the dock, and the drawer of golden instruments was swept over the edge along with him.
The crew of the boat named Bess reacted quickly. Hayes wheeled the spot light around so that its light illuminated the water below, and Jenn dropped her rifle and dove into the bay while Philip dealt with the remaining Russians, which took very little time.
The last thing Vitus remembered seeing was the water above him and the beam of light that encompassed him. He was falling, and all around him were incandescent fragments of jade and gold that sparkled in the light. They fell with him, as if he was caught up in a strange sort of rain that never fell to earth, and then there was only blackness.
"There you are," said Philip, emerging from the shadows.
Vitus jumped, and his finger rattled against the trigger of his pistol. Luckily he gained his composure instead of firing blindly at the source of the voice.
"Sorry," said Philip. He then pointed at a set of heavy double doors connected to the security office. "The main storage room is through here, but we might have a problem. The doors are sealed. I might be able to override them, but I expect that meddling with them at all will trigger an alarm. Before I open them, I need to know that you're ready."
Vitus searched for the proper response. He knew what Philip was actually asking him--if he was ready to kill. It was a question he had been asking himself after the night in the alleyway, and until now, he'd never been able to answer it. This was the moment of transition. Vitus realized that if he said yes, he'd never be the same person he once was--Vitus Bethel, mild-mannered antique-dealer. But would this stop him from being a good person? He knew that only his actions could determine that, and if the ability to take another life meant crossing the line of moral ambiguity, Vitus was finally ready to cross that threshold. After all, the world isn't always black and white, and the time for romanticism had come and gone. The time had come for a revolution in Vitus' own life, and he made his choice.
"I'm ready," he said.
"Good," said Philip. "Be quick."
As Vitus tucked away his pistol, Philip pulled both of his free from their holsters and typed away at a console using only his little fingers. Vitus could hear the sound of a latch releasing within the doors, and he pushed them open to reveal a wide room filled with antiques. Vitus felt at home as he jogged down the aisles. Everything was arranged carefully, like exhibits in a museum.
One entire row was devoted to furniture, divided up by decade--the oldest being a late Victorian era armchair, unvarnished and simple. Vitus may have found Malcolm Ivanovich himself to be a murderous psychopath, but he certainly admired the man's taste in antiquities. As he dashed down each aisle, casting quick glances all around him, numbers and figures ran through his head, estimating values based on factors like age, condition, rarity, and demand of each piece in Ivanovich's collection. He had already made mental notes of several items he felt were worth taking, including the aforementioned armchair, a signed first edition of G. K. Chesterton's The Man who was Thursday, several Chinese vases from varying dynasties, a drawer full of gold pocket watches and other assorted time and distance-based instruments, and a glass case filled with more jade figurines carved in the likenesses of Biblical characters. There were, of course, pieces worth far more in this particular collection, but Vitus also took into consideration the size and maneuverability of every item. He knew they didn't have much time left, so he based his decisions on what would hurt Ivanovich most both financially and emotionally and could be carried in a single trip.
"Vitus," yelled Philip from the doorway. He held the radio in his hands. "We're about to have trouble. We need to move."
"I'm ready," Vitus replied.
Philip ran into the room, placing several small packages along the aisles. Vitus began placing the vases in a heavy cardboard box and then placed it with a small stack of books on the seat of the late Victorian armchair, ready for Philip to haul back to the boat. As he ran back toward the jade figurines to prepare a load for himself, something caught Vitus' eye. Behind a nearby glass case was a small derringer pistol. Vitus felt an impulse take control of his body, and before he knew it, he had shattered the glass with his elbow and pocketed the gun. He then loaded the case of jade atop the drawer of gold watches and joined Philip, who was waiting at a large overhead door with the loaded armchair in his hands. Philip kicked the wall, triggering a button that raised the door and exposed the pier beyond.
"Follow me," said Philip, leading the way with the chair hiding most of his torso.
Vitus could see their boat docked at the far end, but escape still felt so far away. Off to the north of the pier, where the road swung around to the rear of the warehouse and joined the dock itself, three cars were heading toward them. Apparently, Ivanovich had invested in more security since his last run-in with Vitus.
"Stay down. Keep behind the crates," Philip told him as they wove through an obstacle course of empty shipping crates and other large objects that were strewn across the pier.
The cars, all of which were black sedans, pulled as far onto the pier as they could, and then three men burst from each one, wearing black suits and carrying identical handguns. They yelled in a language that most definitely was not English and gave chase, pausing every so often to fire off a few rounds.
"Russians," Philip muttered to himself.
Vitus ducked behind an empty metal crate and could hear the sound of bullets ricocheting off the other side and feel the vibration of every shot. The sound of more gunfire erupted from the boat as Jenn and Hayes fired their rifles in rapid succession, suppressing the advance of the Russian security force. As the antique-dealer and his compatriot drew nearer the boat named Bess, Hayes switched on a spotlight that had been bolted to the deck of the boat and shined it at the Russians to blind and distract them while his cohorts ran across the open space between the flock of standing crates and the docked boat. Philip ran first, holding the chair as high as he could without spilling the items bundled into the seat. He crossed a wide plank that led him straight to the deck of the ship, where he proceeded to pull his twin pistols from their holsters and fire wildly back at the Russians to buy Vitus some more time. The antique-dealer, however, was lagging far behind. He emerged from the behind the very last crate, which had contained a very large shipment of tea at one point and still bore the strong fragrance of green tea, and began his mad dash toward safety.
Unfortunately, he did not count on the one Russian to sneak through the maze of the pier unharmed with a gun still in his hand. The Russian yelled and aimed his weapon, and then there came the sound of two gunshots that rang out simultaneously like stereophonic destruction. Jenn had seen the Russian slip in, and as the man pointed his gun at Vitus, she pulled her trigger without further hesitation. The Russian dropped to the ground. This was no shot to the arm or leg; this was a shot to the heart, and for the antique-dealer's partner, so was the moment that followed.
Vitus Bethel stumbled. He'd felt a tingling sensation in his right shoulder, and then a sudden warmth. But it was the force of the blow that knocked him off of his feet and over the side of the pier. The glass case shattered against the edge of the dock, and the drawer of golden instruments was swept over the edge along with him.
The crew of the boat named Bess reacted quickly. Hayes wheeled the spot light around so that its light illuminated the water below, and Jenn dropped her rifle and dove into the bay while Philip dealt with the remaining Russians, which took very little time.
The last thing Vitus remembered seeing was the water above him and the beam of light that encompassed him. He was falling, and all around him were incandescent fragments of jade and gold that sparkled in the light. They fell with him, as if he was caught up in a strange sort of rain that never fell to earth, and then there was only blackness.
No comments:
Post a Comment