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Chapter 6

  The buyer’s location was not far, easily walkable, but Emz would have arrived too early and been too cold. So, he used his digital assistant to hail a taxi to waypoint two, a pre-programmed location at Poyz Midton International train station. There, he grabbed a coffee in another festively decorated café and scoffed down one of his protein bars before hailing another taxi to the Gemini Building back in Norton.

  His timing was impeccable, with little nighttime traffic affecting the travel estimates Emz arrived ten minutes early at the intersection south of the target location. He walked at an unhurried pace northward toward the residential apartment building, which, from its entrance on Bowie street, was designed to resemble the Roman numeral II. The tall, slender midsection, adorned with giant projected snowflakes cascading down its surface, was sandwiched between a broader ground floor and an overhanging penthouse floor that loomed high in the sky.

  He made his way to the service entrance at the rear, where a small lobby housed a building porter seated at a desk, absorbed in the tablet device before him. Nearby, a humanoid robot with yellow-and-blue accents and a Santa hat was methodically mopping the floor in front of two wide service elevators, its movements precise and efficient. At exactly 2 a.m., Emz cleared his throat with a faint cough to announce his presence.

  The porter looked up from his screen. He was a young Black man with a skin tone slightly darker than Emz’s, wearing square-framed black corrective glasses with thick lenses that made his inquiring brown eyes appear massive. A crown of stylish, textured curls framed his face, adding a touch of individuality to his polished appearance. His saffron-coloured waistcoat was impeccably tailored, and the gold name badge pinned to his chest read ‘Michael’ in sleek, engraved lettering.

  “Can I help you?” the porter asked, with a hint of an American accent.

  “Michael, I’m here with a delivery for Mr Petrovi?.”

  The porter glanced down at the art portfolio case and then gave a slight nod before speaking into the air for the building's AI assistant. “Gem, notify Mr Petrovi? that his delivery has arrived and guide the courier to his penthouse.” Immediately, a rich chime sounded in acknowledgment, and one of the service elevator doors slid apart with a warm beckoning light slowly blinking above. The porter gestured with his hand towards the elevator, and Emz walked across the small lobby. The robot quickly retreated backwards against the wall, clutching the mop handle close to its frame to allow Emz to pass comfortably by, before resuming its chore once he did.

  As soon as Emz stepped inside, the elevator doors closed, and the bronze-lined cube ascended the tall building. “Mr Petrovi?, north penthouse,” an elegant, feminine voice, generated from hidden speakers, announced.

  A screen displayed the elevator's rapid progress up from the ground floor, past the restaurant and spa level, through twenty-two residential floors, and finally to the overhanging penthouse floor, which housed both the north and south penthouses, just below the roof access to the building’s helipad.

  The wide doors slid open to reveal a long corridor that ran all the way to the front of the building, with four guest elevators opposite. “Please exit and take the door to your right,” the assistant gently directed.

  Emz walked almost halfway along the corridor to where the north wall fell back into an alcove housing the double entrance doors to the north penthouse. The south penthouse had a mirroring alcove just offset further along, presumably so that each resident didn’t have to exit their home directly opposite their neighbour. A stocky thug in a charcoal suit was waiting for him outside the doors.

  The brutish man stood rigid, hands clasped in front of him, scanning Emz up and down with a well-practised assessment. He had a closely shaved head, a weathered face with a few old, thin, pale scars. His Balkan heritage was evident in his broad brow, nose, and jaw. “You have a gun?” he finally asked, after a flick of his eyes to the case.

  “Yes,” Emz candidly replied. “In a back holster.”

  “You leave it with me,” the guard said.

  Emz casually nodded, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he used his left hand to remove his Glock from the holster and offered the piece to the guard.

  The thug didn’t move to accept it; instead, he just gestured with a curt nod of his head that Emz should place it on the floor. Which Emz did, and then the guard finally moved his hands and beckoned Emz forward.

  The moment Emz stepped close, the thug moved with surprising speed and roughly patted Emz down. The strength of the bulldog of a man made Emz rock with each pat, regardless of how firmly he planted his feet and tried to resist being jostled too much. Finally, the guard finished and opened the door, allowing Emz to enter the penthouse.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Inside, there was a large square reception room, with doorways on the interior walls flanking the west and east, and a north-facing exterior wall made entirely of floor-to-ceiling glass panels, offering a nighttime vista over the remaining streets and buildings of Poyz before the district gave way to the surrounding woodland to the north. The upper part of Baltic Bay could just be seen to the north-west, though the gleaming Baltic City Centre was obscured by the interior western wall. However, the lights of the Sch?newik district suburbs were faintly visible on the northern bank of the bay.

  The reception room was filled with a jarring mismatch of expensive furniture and decorations. The owner clearly had money but not taste. There were four people in the room: two more scar-faced, brutish Balkans in charcoal suits, an old greying and moustached man in an ill-fitting navy suit, and a saffron-waistcoated Asian porter piling used dishes onto a trolley. The porter was hurrying, evidently eager to finish up and leave, as he was watched closely by one of the two thugs. The other was looking at Emz with intense, judging eyes.

  Emz was about to walk further in, but the man watching him gave a clear shake of his head to hold still. In Serbian, he spoke to the other thug in a gravelly, deep, authoritarian tone. “Get the help out of here.” The words were quietly translated into Emz’s buds.

  The other thug, slightly younger, stepped towards the porter, waving his hand in a dismissal gesture. “You go, come back in an hour.”

  The Asian porter didn’t need to be told twice and quickly wheeled his trolley out of the room, vanishing through the entrance doors. As soon as they were closed again by the outside guard, the first Balkan to speak walked over to a large walnut dining table and beckoned Emz over.

  Emz walked over and placed the portfolio case gently on the table. “I have brought your artwork.”

  “You are late,” the Balkan said.

  Emz studied the man. He was broad-shouldered and muscular, just about fitting inside his expensive suit. Late forties or early fifties, with olive-toned and scarred skin, dark brown hair slicked back with a slight wave, and dark brown, intense eyes. He had full lips set in a stern line. Emz knew he wasn’t late and estimated that the comment was just designed to make him feel uneasy and establish authority. So, he ignored it and began to unzip and open the case to move the conversation on. “Well, hopefully, you’ll be pleased to see your purchase.”

  The other two men crowded around and admired the painting as the case lid was flipped away and the art was revealed, in all its rich black and gold glory. Emz avoided touching the art itself and quickly stepped back to allow them all a good look.

  The older man with the mustache leaned in close, pulling a magnifying lens with a bright light from his top pocket. With careful precision, he began a thorough examination of the black brushstrokes and intricate goldwork. After some time, he retrieved a small metal case from his trouser pocket, opening it to reveal a tiny blade. He gently tipped the painting upward, just enough to expose a sliver of the canvas wrapped around the back of the stretcher frame. Using the blade, he scraped a minuscule amount of black paint from the rear edge, placing it onto a shiny steel square within the case. He then adjusted a few buttons on the screen embedded in the case’s lid, his focus unwavering.

  While this happened, the older Balkan man spoke to Emz. “You know who I am?”

  “Yes, you’re Bogdan Petrovi?.”

  “You know what I do to people who wrong me?”

  Emz took a breath, steadying himself to ensure his voice remained neutral. “I can guess.”

  Petrovi? gave the slightest of smiles, which was anything but friendly. “You really cannot.” He let that comment hang for a moment and then pointed to the painting. “If this is a forgery, you will not be leaving here.”

  Emz opened his hands. “Hey, I’m just the delivery guy. I picked this up today from the artist directly a few hours ago. He genuinely looked like he was reluctant to part with it, so if this is fake, I’ve been fooled too.” Emz took a second to stay calm and collected. Confidence was king, he reminded himself. “I have a good reputation; I deliver for my clients. This is genuine.”

  “I am aware of you. You arrange fake IDs and break encryption.” The Serbian trafficker furrowed his brow. “So, why are you now delivering art?”

  Emz shrugged. “I’m between tech guys at the moment, so hustling old school until I can get access to more IDs.”

  Petrovi? gave a slight nod, as if accepting the answer.

  “It’s good,” the older man finally announced.

  The Serbian boss showed no emotion at the comment but glanced over at the younger Balkan thug. “Pay the man, and transfer the balance to the artist.” Petrovi? then picked up the painting from the table, his meaty hands gripping either side of the frame, and, with the artwork facing his chest, walked it around the table to a vacant space on an interior wall, where brass gallery lights were already in place. He hung the painting on a hook, twisting it slightly until he felt it was level.

  Emz watched, internally relieved. He cast his gaze around the room, considering the other paintings that decorated the space: a still life of a bowl of fruit, a landscape of a farmstead, a vivid post-impressionist portrait (perhaps a Van Gogh), an abstract piece with intersecting lines in primary colours, and, finally, the gold-painted emoji. Far too much money, far too little taste.

  The younger thug approached Emz with a folding mobile device from his inner jacket pocket, ready to transfer the coin. After a bump with Emz’s wrist screen, the fixer's account was richer by twenty thousand. Not bad for a couple of hours of work.

  Job done, coffers increased, Emz headed home to sleep, chill for the rest of Sunday, and think about how to find Gary.

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