CHAPTER 1: PIGS

The sky hung heavy, a veil of smoke and humidity that smothered the sunlight, making it seem like a hazy memory. The fine, piercing rain seeped through the expensive fabric of their jackets, sticking their shirts to their skin. With every breath, the air filled their lungs with the choking taste of exhaust fumes and the cloying rot of garbage overflowing from the bins. The sanitation workers’ strike, now in its second week, left the city to fester.

Their feet moved hastily over the cracked pavement slabs. They maneuvered to avoid illegally parked scooters and then a small waterfall of foul water that spewed from a rusted drain pipe. Their polished leather shoes splashed through puddles where shredded plastic bags and cigarette butts floated.

They trudged with their collars turned up. The first one, Mike, lifted his gaze from the ground for a moment. His broad face, with its crooked, broken nose, remained expressionless, but a spark of irony flickered in his eyes as he glanced at a piece of graffiti on the opposite wall: an abstract, colorful scream drowned in smudges and slogans. ‘Rats in a cage,’ he thought. His wide shoulders rolled with a looseness that belied their hurried pace, the confidence of a man who had nothing to prove.

Beside him, the younger one, Alec, stalked with a rigid energy. His dark, unruly hair was plastered to his forehead by the damp. His sharp, black eyes never stopped scanning everything: the windows of the buildings, the shadows in the doorways, the faces of the few passersby. Inside his jacket pocket, his long, sinewy fingers, marked by old scratches, fiddled incessantly with a lighter. The rhythmic, metallic click-click synchronized with the monotonous patter of the rain.

Without slowing down or looking, they stepped off the curb and crossed the street. A car braked sharply and honked; neither of them paid it any mind. On the other side, a woman carrying grocery bags took a hesitant step back to let them pass, clutching her shopping to her chest. A few people glanced at them fleetingly, a flash of recognition that vanished instantly, and then lowered their gazes or changed direction. An invisible circle formed around them—a space cleared not by their own actions, but by the instincts of others.

They arrived at a low, unmarked door at the end of the street. A thick smell of burnt coffee and rancid oil poured out and enveloped them before they even stepped inside. The small bell above the door chimed, a jingle that made the cook in the back freeze above his frying pan the moment he saw them.

Mike entered first, with Alec closing the door behind him, sealing out the noise of the rain. The light inside was meager and yellowish. The walls gleamed with grease, saturated with decades of smoke, and hanging crookedly on them were faded posters of places no one in here would ever visit.

They crossed the small space and headed for the corner table next to the grimy window. They dragged the chairs heavily, the noise scraping against the worn floor tiles. The few other customers—an old man reading his newspaper, two workers in soiled overalls—averted their gazes, sank back into their coffee, and became invisible.

Alec took out a pack of cigarettes. The lighter made a sharp click, and the flame illuminated his angular features for a moment. He took a deep drag and let the smoke rise slowly toward the ceiling. No one said a word about the “NO SMOKING” sign hanging crookedly above the counter. His gaze swept the room: the door, the window, their reflection in the glass. A habit that never left him.

“Two black coffees and two omelets with extra bacon,” Mike yelled toward the kitchen, without even looking in that direction.

A short while later, a young woman emerged. Thin, with her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun and deep, purple shadows under her eyes. She approached their table silently and set down the mugs and plates, careful not to look them in the eye at all. Her hands trembled slightly, making the coffee ripple dangerously close to the rim of the mug.

Mike’s eyes narrowed into two sly slits. His stare crawled slowly over her, from the tight bun of her hair, down her back, with an aggressive insolence she could practically feel against her skin.

“If you don’t have a man to look after you, girl, you’ll get eaten alive out here.” His palm covered her hand as she was setting down their order. There was a chilling possessiveness in his touch.

She pulled back abruptly as if burned, but she didn’t reply. Her lips tightened into a thin line and her gaze shifted elsewhere, as if trying to escape.

Alec smirked, watching the young woman’s back tense as she walked away. He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling, relishing the tension that thickened the room.

“Always tough at first,” he said with a hint of malice in his voice. “But then they all turn into little lambs.”

Their laughter, loud and hoarse, drowned out the sound of the rain and the sizzling from the kitchen. The few customers shifted nervously, sinking their gazes deeper into their mugs. The stories they overheard didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“…and he tells me he doesn’t remember a thing,” Mike laughed, pushing a piece of bacon into his mouth with his fork. “I refreshed his memory in the basement. He even remembered the taste of his mother’s milk.”

Alec blew smoke from his nose. “George should have let us clean up that other asshole with the computers, too. He thinks too much.”

They ate quickly, almost violently, their forks scraping the plates. Between bites and sips of coffee, half-spoken words about “kids who think they’re gangsters,” about “merchants who don’t pay on time,” about “tough guys who learned their place,” painted a picture that everyone in the diner already knew how to read.

When the plates were empty, Alec shoved his cup hard, making it clatter against the saucer. He stretched, the bones in his back cracking.

“Time to go pick up the pig.”

Mike pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and tossed it onto the dirty plates, indifferent to it getting stained with grease and coffee. They stood up at the same time, without a backward glance.

Their “pig” was waiting. George Monroe, former Minister of Justice, now a simple Member of Parliament, needed drivers and a security detail for his trip to the Parliament. And these two, with their police IDs hidden in their pockets, were much more than that. They were his hands for the dirty jobs, his tools for the ‘persuasion’ he couldn’t carry out personally in the halls of power.

The city’s cold, damp breath hit them in the face again. They crossed the street to the black, armored SUV that awaited them, enormous and alien among the old, humble cars. The doors closed with a heavy, muffled thud, sealing the world out. Inside, the smell of leather and expensive car air freshener replaced the city’s rot. A mobile fortress for a man who had many reasons to be afraid.

Alec started the engine, and it purred to life. The fine rain beaded on the glossy black paint, trickling down the tinted window in slow, crimson-tinged rivulets under the city lights. In the passenger seat, Mike took out his phone. The screen lit up, its blue light illuminating his sardonic smirk as he saw the sender’s name: “Abdul.”

“There’s my little bird,” a corner of his mouth pulled upward in a dirty smile. “You can always count on a junkie for information. I didn’t tell you, did I? I was fucking his mom the other day.” His smile widened, repulsive. “She’ll do anything to keep her son out of prison. Want to go visit her together sometime?”

Alec glanced at him sideways, without real interest. The streets slid by under the SUV’s tires. “You’re a real pig, man. Sometimes I can’t believe you,” he said in a flat voice.

Mike licked his lips, a quick, wet swipe of his tongue. “His little sister is playing hard to get,” he winked at Alec, “but I’ll straighten her out, too.”

He opened the message.

“Come to the alley behind my house now. It’s urgent.”

The sneer vanished abruptly.

“Turn,” he ordered, his voice sharp. “We’re going to Abdul’s place. If this isn’t serious, I’m going to beat the shit out of that little bastard.”

Alec yanked the steering wheel. The SUV growled and plunged into a sunless alley. The building walls nearly touched the vehicle’s mirrors.

Deeper in the city’s narrow streets, where tourists avoid going, a thin, dark figure was shifting from foot to foot impatiently, like a trapped animal. Abdul. His eyes darted around in a panic as he clutched a yellow envelope in his hand. His face, at only sixteen, was already etched with lines that should have taken years to form.

The SUV stopped beside him. The passenger-side power window descended with a quiet hum. Abdul lurched forward, almost pressing his face into the opening.

“They took my phone,” he said, his breath short. “They gave me this for you.”

Mike frowned. His eyes darkened. He snatched the envelope from the boy’s hand. “Who?”

“I don’t know them…” The boy’s lips trembled. He leaned closer, his voice a whisper filled with terror. “They told me he’s watching us. If my friends find out I’m talking to you… they’ll kill me.”

Before Mike could answer, Abdul had already turned. His figure became a shadow swallowed by the next alley.

No one spoke. Only the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the rain on the hood. Mike held the envelope as if it were a bomb. Alec, for the first time, had slightly raised his eyebrows, a subtle crack in his expressionless, hard mask.

Their eyes combed the streets, the rooftops, the windows. Nothing. Mike ripped open the envelope. Inside, a second, smaller envelope, and a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it.

“Stay calm. This is just another job, but from now on, you work for a new boss. Sorry I didn’t ask you first. Now open the envelope, then continue reading.”

Mike looked up. He met Alec’s puzzled gaze.

“Wait.” His fingers tore open the second envelope.

A stack of photographs spilled into his lap. It was them. At dark bar tables, under bridges, in parking lots. Hands exchanging envelopes full of cash with known figures of the underworld. Glasses clinking with men they were supposed to be arresting. A chill took root in his gut. These photos weren’t just proof. They were a death sentence. If they got out, the best-case scenario was prison, full of people who would be waiting for them with “joy”; the worst, a bullet in the head in some ditch.

He thumbed through the photos. Themselves, their associates, the money, the drinks… And then, he stopped. A cold dread washed over him.

The photo was of his own house. Two men in black balaclavas and tactical vests were standing in front of his door. One held an automatic rifle with his finger near the trigger. The other held up the morning paper, its headline perfectly clear. Taken today. They were there, right now.

Another photo. Alec’s house. The same scene.

He felt his guts twist. This wasn’t some amateur’s job; it was organized, expensive. The work of a madman, or someone with nothing left to lose. He had to find out which it was.

He turned sharply to Alec. His eyes were hard, but his words came out a little weaker. “What was your wife wearing this morning?”

Alec looked at him as if he were crazy. He was silent for a moment, his mind racing back. “A… red blouse. Why?”

Mike tossed the photo into his lap.

Alec picked it up. Through the glass of his balcony door, his wife could be seen making coffee in the kitchen. She was wearing a bright, red blouse. His breath caught in his throat.

With his hands trembling almost imperceptibly, Mike picked up the note again. His eyes raced over the words.

“I’m not blackmailing you with your families. I’m sure scum like you would sacrifice them to save your own skin. These photos are your alibi. You will be presented as victims of blackmail, which will secure your release after the job is completed. The prosecutor is already waiting for you, with the case file prepared exactly as I’ve instructed. Everything will be over in two hours from now, if you do exactly as I say. Your mission is simple: you will kidnap the Member of Parliament and deliver him to the location that will be indicated to you. Drive to the intersection of Philadelphia and Freedom Square, a ‘friend’ of yours is waiting for you there.”

“We’re going to kidnap the pig,” Mike said in a hollow tone. “They’ve got us.”

The conversation died, leaving only the low purr of the idling engine. Alec stared out the window, at the wet streets, at the faces of the passersby. For the first time, the city they considered their playground looked like the walls of a prison.

“God damn it,” he muttered. In a burst of rage and despair, he slammed his fist on the dashboard. The thud filled the car. “Let’s go.”

Mike folded the paper and shoved it deep into his jacket pocket along with the photos. The SUV started creeping slowly, like a wounded beast. Outside, the rain was starting to let up, and a pale sun struggled to break through the clouds. The light outside might have been growing, but inside the car, their world had just plunged into a deeper darkness.

* * *

The SUV turned onto the main road and a moment later dipped into a side street. The asphalt here was fractured, full of potholes filled with dirty water. On the sides, old warehouses with rusted metal sheets and shattered windows stood like carcasses.

Next to a bin overflowing with trash stood a figure with a backpack on his shoulder. His faded leather trench coat hung on him like a second skin, indifferent to fashion. The smoke from the cigarette wedged between his lips rose slowly, disappearing into the gray sky.

Mike got out, the heavy SUV door closing behind him with a muffled thud.

“Jeff,” he nodded. His gaze scanned the area. “What’s going on?”

“Mike,” Jeff greeted back, and for a moment he looked surprised. His expression was a tight, joyless line. His right hand was shoved into his trench coat pocket, creating a discreet, but clear, outline. “I don’t know what you mean. I was paid to deliver this to someone who would meet me here. Are you him?”

“I am. Who paid you?” His voice was calm, but his gaze was fixed on Jeff’s hand. “And what’s the amount that turns a killer into a delivery boy?”

Jeff raised his eyebrows. “A very good amount. I don’t know who it is. Everything over the phone. He told me to be on my guard, in case I needed to use my ‘skills.’ I don’t think that will be necessary between us, right?”

Mike felt a familiar sting of anger at the base of his throat. On any other day, Alec’s hand would have already moved toward his gun. But today was not like other days. His pride had already been crushed.

“No, Jeff.” He grabbed the backpack and turned back to the car.

“Drive,” he told Alec as he closed the door. The sound of the zipper and the rustling were the only things audible inside the luxurious cabin. Inside he found everything. Zip ties, a black cloth hood, a thick roll of duct tape.

“The bastard said they took his phone,” Alec said, his eyes fixed on the road. “Call it, let’s see if someone picks up…”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

The sharp ring of Mike’s phone tore through the quiet. On the screen, the name “Abdul” glowed like a bad joke. Mike looked at the screen, then at Alec. His face was frozen.

“He can hear us…” he whispered.

“Speakerphone,” Alec replied, just as quietly.

Mike answered, pressing the button with his thumb.

“And I can see you, too,” a calm, male voice came from the speaker. The eyes of the two men darted involuntarily to the windows, searching the shadows of the warehouses.

Mike squeezed the phone in his hand, so hard his knuckles turned white.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, but these games you’re playing won’t end well for you.”

“Allow me to introduce myself, then,” the speaker replied, unperturbed. “You can call me Bell. And don’t you worry about me. You just worry about doing your job right, so that it ends well for you.”

Alec leaned toward the phone, his tone cold, accepting the situation. “And what are the next steps?”

“You will pick up the ‘pig,’ as you call him, as if nothing is wrong. You will stick close to the usual route. The pig is under surveillance. If you deviate, you’re finished. Once he is bound, gagged, and hooded, I will call you again.”

The disembodied voice paused briefly.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he added, and the irony in the word “gentlemen” was like a slap in the face.

The line went dead.