Keep the Wolf from the Door

Chapter 30 - Dies Irae

30.

Dies Irae

Through the sinful woman shriven, Through the dying thief forgiven, Thou to me a hope hast given...

            At night, the warehouse could be an intimidating place. Pitch black terrain lit up by swooping spotlights, populated with vicious canine. Every square inch monitored by cameras picking up on any and all movement around the clock.

            Checkpoint one was the front gate. Michael pulled up to the security window. He flashed his driver's license. Though the guard was more than familiar with Michael's face, he followed protocol. "Offices?" He asked scrolling down his list of expected visitors. Michael nodded. "Okay, pop your trunk." Michael hit the release button. Michael replayed his conversation with Sal: Checkpoint one is the lighter check. They won't start opening shit up, not there anyway... The conditioned part of his brain made him feel like a traitor but his better judgment kicked his ass for it. The heavy iron gates opened up.

            Checkpoint two: security headquarters, home of the cameras and motion detectors. Path one was to the offices and path two, the yard. To get into path one was the far more difficult route. This process involved another ID check, another car check. This is where it gets interesting... Michael could hear the big rig in the distance. He glanced in his rearview and then at the man in front of the monitors.

            Once he sees you approaching, my guy will know to wait ten minutes then trip the power. There's about fifty to sixty feet between the office and the yard. Watch out for the Canines...

            He accelerated down the path lined with barbwire.Checkpoint three: inside the lobby of the two story office tower. Anything deemed weaponry would be removed from the visitor and locked away at that point.

            Michael's pulse spiked with the bang of the solid oak. He was in the office alone, or at least, they wanted him to believe he was, but he could sense a maniacal heartbeat echoing his own.

            He continued through the long and narrow wing. Everything Aleksey needed—a rec-room, a board room, an to en-suite with a glass shower inside—the fully equipped fortress that. Towards the end of his life Aleksey found fewer reasons to leave it. To leave would mean exposure, which would mean vulnerability for such an important player, so Aleksey castled himself inside the compound where he deteriorated, alone.

            Soft music played as Michael walked deeper into the gloom past the pool table and dartboards, a bottle of old Moscovskaya resting on the bar. He walked past the fireplace and noticed the chessboard in disarray. The pieces carelessly sprawled onto their sides; Aleksey would never leave them in such disorder. Michael took a moment to straighten them. And as he stood the last rook up, he heard rustling in the distance. The music grew louder and more dynamic; a piece by Sergei Rachmaninov, Sonata No. 2: Aleksey's favorite. Sprawled on top of the lit up boardroom table were photographs of Miller and Michael, of Charlie and Shanks with police cars outside of Heat, walking in like they owned the joint: a very vivid collage, but only fragments of the truth.