Sevastyan

Sevastyan sealed his briefcase and gave the dirty warehouse office one last look.

Every surface was accounted for. The cameras and footage were destroyed.

The computers were wiped. Bak Sahyuk’s most vulnerable location was ready for authorities to raid without wider impact to the Merchari.

Two of his associates were stacked in one of the industrial freezers, packed inside bags of rice.

They hadn’t put up a fight. One tray of donuts laced with sleeping aids had put them on the floor.

The cold was doing the rest. Bloodless and silent had been one of the requirements.

The warehouse was in a busy, if run-down, area of town with packed low-income housing on two sides and a gas station across the street.

Sevastyan picked up his box of records and hard drives and walked out into the sunshine. He dragged one foot and scratched here and there as he shuffled along, his dirty clothes a match for the trash in the alley.

In a public park five blocks over, he changed into jeans and a hoodie and transferred his load into a sports bag.

From there he walked into a nicer neighborhood, picked his car up from a service alley, and drove north, changing again, this time back into the veneer of his international art dealer. There was one more stop to make.

The southern Californian coastal town was subdued by what passed as winter weather this far south, but it was not empty.

Parking, however, was easy to find. His new vehicle matched his cover—red, sleek, and less than a year old.

The boardwalk was almost empty. White sand stretched out towards dark water that rolled in and out under an ice-colored moon.

Outdoor heaters eased the slight nip in the air.

By Russian standards the temperature was balmy.

He slid into a bar with a mural of parrots two meters high flung over its exterior.

Inside was dimly lit with loud splashes of color, still matching the parrot theme.

A woman, Mara, with long honey-colored hair and wearing a tight blue dress without straps or sleeves, sat at the bar. He lowered himself down next to her.

She smiled. “Long time no see.”

“Long time.” Sevastyan leaned towards her, holding his breath, and kissed the air on either side of her face. She did the same in return. They pulled apart. Sevastyan waved at the bartender and slapped a twenty on the high counter. “Rum and Coke.”

The Hispanic man holding down the fort grunted and nodded, his hands busy loading up a flight of shots.

Sevastyan turned towards his contact. Mara pushed a napkin towards him. He took it, swiping the packet from under it and transferring it into his sleeve. He spread the napkin flat, playing with it. “I need the target operational directly afterwards. There will be consequences if they aren’t.”

“I’ll bank my reputation on this,” Mara said.

She brought her drink to her mouth without actually imbibing and set it back down.

“First dose should induce extreme submissiveness. Subject will be absolutely inclined to follow any suggestion or order, even to their injury. Phrase your directions and questions appropriately. Side effects can include dry mouth and a memory gap for the duration of the influence.

That’s usually a selling point. There could be weakness and nausea for several days after.”

He didn’t need to be told how the drug worked. He had clear memories.

“Acceptable.” He put his hand into his pocket, transferring the packet from his sleeve to his pants. He tapped his phone, wiring money to the woman’s account. “Thank you for making it out tonight.”

The bartender pushed a cold glass of rum and coke towards Sevastyan and glanced at the woman’s drink, still mostly full. “Can I get ya’ll anything else?”

Mara smothered a yawn and smiled at the bartender. “Just a quick drink after work, sorry, Joe. I’m about done.”

“Me too, me too.” The barkeeper patted the counter and moved towards other customers at the other end.

Mara turned back to Sevastyan. “Avoid a second dose if possible. There are two, if you need them. I can’t guarantee operational ability of the subject if a second dose is used.”

“Understood.”

Sevastyan motioned to the sandy outer portion of the bar where there were still tables and places to sit but no roof or floor.

No one else was taking advantage of the space.

They moved out under the cold stars. He lowered his hand with his drink, holding it by the top with all five fingers.

A flick of his wrist and some of the contents sloshed out onto the sand.

“Been a while since you were in California,” Mara said.

“Europe keeps me busy,” Sevastyan replied. “Haven’t seen you abroad in a while either.”

She laughed softly. “You know me. I have my lab, my people. The money is good. Why travel? My ankles swell on planes.”

They made small talk for another twenty minutes, then left their empty drinks on the bar and separated on the boardwalk.

It was time to go home. A red eye out of LAX would have him back in a few hours.