5. Livery

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

Warshond 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 on the rim of a sink. He panted; his shoulders heaved. Sweat stranded the hair before his eyes. 

"Fuck yeah, it worked!" Hakan Sherif cried, jumping on his feet, his corded arms pumping. A hand at the lab at twenty-three, Hakan had worked for Warshond since he dropped out of high school at the recommendation of Argun Ozal. Unlike his stoic uncle who kept his mouth sealed behind a bushy beard, and whose glaucous eyes betrayed nothing, the boy was too frisky to Warshond's liking. But such an organization 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 leverage over the old fox Ozal just to be safe.

"You're a fucking god, boss!" Hakan Sherif whirled around and bumped Warshond 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 carry around on them." 

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

"And use Route B." 

The quirking brows begged for 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 Golden Gate Burger." As his voice fell, the vault opened from the other side. Argun Ozal returned with three underlings. 

"It's all clear," he grunted, his glaucous eyes calm like the sea before a storm. 

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

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

While they were at it, Warshond inspected the inside of the vault, an insulated space he called the capsule, which was connected to a tunnel they called the sewage. It would lead to a location of the burger joint where both Ozal and his nephew were registered members of staff. Once his men withdrew, and upon the DEA's arrival, he would detonate the capsule. Iside of the vault would thus appear still under construction from the lab with the rest of the sewage intact. 

Argun Ozal left him nothing to worry about. He smiled and patted the man on the back. "Thank you."

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

Warshond favored him with another nod. "Cut them into small orders. We haven't got the time till morning for the truck."

"Good thing I've messaged the boys and have them fake order fifty 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 chuckle narrowed his gaze. He glanced sideways at Ozal. "I know I can count on you." 

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 to the burger joint if god forbids they catch you on cameras?"

"Who says I'm leaving with you?"

Ozal cocked a quizzical brow. 

"There is always somebody onto me. And if I have to run every time, what's the fun in all that?"

Before the man could whip up a reply, his nephew came with everything packed how Warshond had stipulated. Hot-headed they might be, these young men were dexterous. 

Warshond gestured at the sewage with his eyes 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 before other priorities. Spinning to his heel, he led the others into the sewage. 

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

Warshond insulated the capsule and bolted the vault. A throaty rumble shook the floor at the push of a seemingly innocuous button. 

All the pieces were set. 

He heaved, throwing back his head, his eyes closed. Behind closed lids, light wobbled like the snow-capped spires bobbling under the sun he saw so long ago in the Third World North. His eyes opened at the vapor-tight fixture glaring in white. He sneered. Compelling his thought to his present, he wheeled to the wall hanger next to the entrance, from which a black trench coat was hung. Tailored to him and ornated with fine tracery, it was a gift from Lord Qusbecq, a livery he wore on such an occasion, not to pledge loyalty but to hold leverage. Should he be in danger, he had the Qusbecq name to fall back on. Or so in theory. That he needed such leverage in the first place evinced how little Lord Qusbecq would put on the line for a son with the wife he discarded so long ago. And any pawn angling to be a player should know the risk he bore in such a fate. 

He took the coat off the hanger, revealing a silver black half phantom mask beneath. A snort jerked his lips. Many years ago, he found the mask while he was cleaning out the old house after Mother died. She said it was for his graduation ball. Of course, she wasn't there when he graduated, nor did he go the halfwitted ball with all the morons for all he cared. The first time he wore the mask to hide his face only because it happened to be there, and it was convenient. Nothing sentimental. Just an irk now that he couldn't dispose of that which he had never wanted. He lifted it off the hook. 

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

He put on the mask.