5. Boss

Inside an industrial lab underground, fans thrummed and spun at full blast amid the steam. 

Warshon opened the oven door and pulled out the tray. Turning his back to the workstation, he threw off the gas mask and propped the heels of his palms against the rim of a sink. He gasped, his shoulders heaving. Damp with sweat, strands of hair fell before his eyes. 

"Fuck yeah, it worked!" Hakan Sherif cried, jumping on his feet, his corded arms pumping. Twenty-seven of age and Ozal's nephew, Hakan had worked as a hand after he failed high school the third time six years ago. Unlike his laconic uncle who kept his mouth sealed behind a bushy beard, and whose glaucous eyes betrayed nothing, the boy was too frisky to Warshon's liking. But such a business he ran needed hot-headed men to carry out too risky an act from time to time. Not to mention that every time the nephew erred, the uncle ran up a debt to him. He needed some measure of leverage over the North Bay War veteran.

"You're a fucking god, boss!" Hakan Sherif whirled around and bumped Warshon on the arm. 

"I've done my part." He intoned, turning to his shoulder as he lifted his eyes at the young man. "Now, it's your turn. Have them all cut and packed in sealed bags. Be sure to cut it flat so it's easy for the mules to pocket them as they move around." 

"Ain't my first day, boss." The boy pounded his chest. 

"And use Route B." 

The quirking brows begged him to clarify. So he did. 

"We've been snitched on. The DEA could be here any minute. Seal the Ice, and use the sewage to take them to the Golden Gate on Wellington." As his voice fell, the vault opened from the other side. Nikita Ozal returned with three underlings. 

"It's all clear," he grunted, his glaucous eyes calm like steel. 

Warshon nodded, then turned to the nephew. "What are you still waiting for?"

The man bounded back to work, joining the other hands. 

While they were at it, Warshon inspected the inside of the vault, an insulated space he called the capsule, which was connected to a tunnel, the sewage. It would lead to a location of the Golden Gate Burger, one on Wellington Street, where both Ozal and his nephew were registered members of staff. Once the men withdrew, and upon the DEA's arrival, he would detonate the capsule. Inside of the vault would thus appear still under construction with the rest of the sewage intact. 

Nikita Ozal left him nothing to worry about. "Good work."

Ozal only shrugged. "Courier sedans this time, I take?"

Warshon favored him with a nod. "Cut them small and dispatch them now. Delivery truck won't come until next morning. We haven't got the time."

"I've messaged the boys and have them fake order over a hundred combos in separate orders. It's all cooking now. Should be enough." 

"Round up the Ice at our EV charging station on their return."

"Aye."

A small chuckle shook his shoulders. Warshon glanced sideways at the other. "You're a reliable man, Nikita." 

The laconic man paid his gratitude no heed. "How you gonna leave? Somebody's onto you, eh? How you gonna explain your night trip to the burger joint if, god forbid, someone sees you, or they catch you on a security camera that isn't ours?"

"Who says I'm leaving with you?"

Ozal squinted, his brows a quizzical arch. 

"There'll always be someone onto me. And if I have to run every time, what's the fun in that?"

Before the man could counter, his nephew returned with everything packed how Warshon had stipulated. Hot-headed they might be, these young men were dexterous. 

Warshon motioned them to the sewage with a whisk of his hand and met Ozal's gaze. 

Through his bearded lips, the man sighed with a hiss. He had his qualms and queries but was also wise enough to withhold them while other priorities awaited. Spinning on his heels, he corralled others and led them into the tenebrous tunnel ahead. 

When all their slanting shadows on the walls merged with the darkness, and the swaying lights from their torches guttered out, silence reclaimed the empty lab. 

Warshon insulated the capsule and bolted the vault. A throaty rumble shook the floor at the push of an innocuous button. 

All the pieces were set. 

He heaved, his head tilting back, his eyes closed. Behind his closed lids, light wobbled like the glow of sunrise glancing off the snow-capped spires he saw so long ago in the Third World North. His eyes opened at the vapor-tight fixture glaring in white. A sneer tugged at his lips. 

Wheeling around to the wall hanger next to the entrance, he took off the black trench coat tailored to him. Under it was a silver-black, half-faced phantom mask he found many years ago while he was cleaning out his mother's old house. She said it was for him to wear to the graduation ball when he grew up. Of course, she wasn't there when he graduated, nor did he go to the halfwitted ball with all the morons for all he cared. He wore the mask to shield his face only because it happened to be there. Nothing sentimental. Just an irk now that he couldn't dispose of the alias he had never wanted. He lifted the mask off the hook. 

A glimpse at the surveillance screen caught armored vehicles pulling up in nearby streets. 

He donned the mask.