Chum

"No, this is all wrong," one guy is saying, his words clipped and precise. "I told you it needed to be taken care of. Today."

"I'm sorry, sir," the other voice responds, sounding young and terrified. "I didn't…no one told me it was supposed to be so soon! I thought--"

"You're not paid to think," the first man snaps. "Do you have any idea who you've kept waiting with your incompetence?"

There's a long pause, the silence broken only by the rapid thud of my own heartbeat in my ears. Then, so softly I almost miss it: "Mrs. Heartbeat, sir. I didn't realize she was coming to oversee the operation personally."

Mrs. Heartbeat? Shit. That's a new one to me. Maybe vaguely familiar - did Sam or Jason bump into her? But if this lackey's reaction is any indication, she's not the type you wanna piss off. I lean in closer, my breath coming shallow and fast, fogging up a small patch of metal near my mouth.

"She's on her way now," Irate Man continues. "And thanks to you, we have nothing to show for this phase except missed deadlines and excuses. Do you know what she does to people who disappoint her?"

There's a small, choked noise, like a whimper being strangled in the throat. "I…I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again, I swear. I'll get the team to double our efforts, we'll work around the clock to get everything ready for transport. Please, just…don't tell her it was my fault."

A mirthless chuckle. "You should have thought of that before you dropped the ball."

I've heard about as much as I can handle without revealing myself and going apeshit on these clowns. I tense, readying myself to intervene, when the sudden hum of an approaching engine freezes me in place. A large black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the edge of the containers, its presence radiating menace like a physical force.

The doors open, and out steps a woman who can only be the infamous Mrs. Heartbeat. She's Hispanic, late twenties at the earliest, dressed in a stylish dress coat like the rest of the higher echelons. Black. Red tie. Broad shoulders and a square jaw. But it's her eyes that grab me, even from this distance. Cold. Assessing. The eyes of a predator sizing up her prey.

I huddle back into my hiding spot, suddenly feeling like a rabbit that's stumbled into a den of foxes. Every instinct screams at me to run, to get as far away from this woman and her aura of casual cruelty as I possibly can. But I force myself to stay put, biting down hard on my lower lip to keep from making any involuntary sounds.

Mrs. Heartbeat surveys the scene in front of her, her gaze lingering on the petrified young man who was getting reamed out just moments ago. He seems to wither under her scrutiny, shrinking back like he wants to melt into the corrugated metal wall behind him.

"Report," she says simply, her voice hard, deep, with a sort of forced squeak to it. Almost nasal, in a sense.

Irate Man practically falls over himself to step forward, his earlier bluster evaporating like morning mist in the face of his boss's arrival. "We've run into some…delays, ma'am. But I assure you, we're doing everything in our power to get the operation back on track. The prime cargo will be ready for transport within the next forty-eight hours, and the…other items will follow shortly thereafter."

She nods, a single sharp motion that conveys a world of meaning. "And the security risks? The ice?"

"A temporary setback," Irate Man assures her. "The weather is turning in our favor, and we've doubled our patrols to ensure no one gets too curious about our little enterprise. It won't be a problem."

Mrs. Heartbeat smiles, a thin slash of red in the colorless landscape. "Good. Because you know how much I hate problems." She says the last word like it's something foul, something to be scraped off the bottom of her steel-toed boots.

Everyone present seems to collectively hold their breath, waiting for the axe to fall. But Mrs. Heartbeat simply clasps her hands in front of her, the picture of icy composure.

"Upper management has put a great deal of faith in this operation, you know," she says, almost conversationally. "This may not be our usual line of business, but we've seen an opportunity to expand our empire, and we never let such opportunities go to waste. Isn't that right?"

A chorus of "Yes, ma'am"s and frantic nodding, the assembled goons falling over themselves to agree with the boss lady.

She continues as if they haven't spoken. "This little side venture will give us the funding we need to move forward with our larger plans. Something to finally buy out the competition from DC. We cannot afford any missteps. Not when so much is riding on our success."

A pause, heavy with unspoken threats. "And to be perfectly clear, gentlemen… Upper management does not tolerate failure. Ever. Am I understood?"

Another round of bobblehead impersonations. Christ, it'd almost be funny if these assholes weren't planning on ripping off a bunch of endangered animals to line their pockets. Whatever "larger plans" they've got cooking, it can't be good for anyone except maybe their bottom line.

Mrs. Heartbeat seems satisfied with their display of groveling obedience. She nods again, a queen granting favor to her loyal subjects. "Wonderful. Now, let's talk specifics, shall we? How soon can we--"

But the sound of more tires squealing in makes me perk up. I lean in, peeking around the corner of my hiding spot, for just a moment, trying like a fool to get a better look at whoever it is. Cars don't just normally pull up in spaces like this blaring their horns, right?

A big - I mean BIG - white cadillac the size of a fuckin' boat pulls up, tire marks painting the ground behind it black like calligraphy ink strokes. The kind of douchey pimpmobile that you only ever see in like, old movies from the 80s and 90s and shit.

And just as quickly as it stops, the doors open, and stepping out is perhaps the biggest motherfucker I've ever seen in my life. He has to be seven feet tall, and nearly half that width, just a fuckin' brick shithouse of muscle and carefully-groomed facial hair, in an immaculate three-piece suit.

Black on black on black. The suit is solid black, not gray or charcoal or pinstripe or anything like that - black, like it's in mourning for everyone who's ever seen it. The most black suit I think I've ever seen someone wear without being at a funeral. And then the shirt underneath is also black, and the tie… you fucking guessed it, black. His forehead reflects shiny under the winter sun, but even from here, I can see it. Salt and pepper patterns have completely taken over this guy's hair. The blackest motherfucker - and I mean this descriptively - I have ever seen in my life, including myself. Everything about this man screams 'motherfucker' to me.

I try to lean in a little further and catch a glimpse of the action, but just as I do, I accidentally jostle some kinda equipment next to me - I'm getting sloppy. The clang of metal on metal rings out, echoing in the sudden silence like a gunshot. Every head snaps in my direction, Mrs. Heartbeat and her goons, and especially Scary Motherfucker, eyeing the stack of containers I'm crouched behind with laser-focus intensity.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, I've really done it now, haven't I? I freeze, my mind racing as I try to figure out my next move. I barely hear the crunching footsteps. Do I stay put and hope they write it off as a random noise? Do I make a break for it and pray I'm faster than their bullets? Shit, I don't know. All I know is that my heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's about to bust out of my chest, and my palms are slick with sweat despite the biting cold. By the time I peek back over, Scary Motherfucker is gone. I am immediately about to shit myself.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder from behind, hard enough to bruise. Cold metal and plastic. I whirl around, ready to swing, ready to scream, but my voice dies in my throat. A gun barrel, pointed right between my eyes. And Sam's half-remembered stories burn back to life in the back of my head, where all the fear lives.

Mr. Nothing - Scary Motherfucker - smiles, a humorless thing that doesn't reach his eyes. "Hello, kid," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I was wondering how long it would take your nosey ass to show up for this little shindig. I had a bet going with Mrs. Heartstop that we wouldn't hear a peep out of you tonight."

"Listen, man, I see something skeevy going down in my city, I investigate. You know how I do. How else a brother gonna make a living?" I ask.

His grip tightens, making me wince. He's a strong fucker. "By minding your own goddamn business, that's how. You and your little band of toddlers really think you can go poking your noses into our affairs without consequence? That the rules don't apply to you because you fancy yourselves some kinda heroes?"

Mrs. Heartbeat steps forward, her eyes glinting coldly in the fading light. "I told you someone'd come," she says to Mr. Nothing, sounding almost bored. "One of the brat pack. Had to be the most annoying one."

"You keep tabs on me? I'm almost honored," I snark.

"Don't get a big head. We keep tabs on the Delaware Valley Defenders. We occasionally notice the little snot-balls dangling by their ankles. You're certainly no Bloodhound, that's for sure," Mr. Nothing says, coughing phlegm out from his chest. "Which one are you again?"

"The handsome one," I answer, face scrunched up.

"We warned you to stay out of our business," Mr. Nothing says, his tone hardening. "We gave you every opportunity to walk away, to live and let live. But you just couldn't take the hint, could you?"

"Robbing the zoo ain't exactly 'live and let live'," I snap, indignant. "Don't act like you fucks are just in the business of minding your own."

He laughs, a harsh barking sound that holds no mirth at all. "Oh, that's rich coming from you. You ever stop to think about how many shipments you've disrupted, how many deals you kids've ruined with your meddling? How many operations are we gonna beat out of you before you learn to leave well enough alone?"

"That's your problem. I never learn," I crack.

He cracks his neck, suddenly jerking it to the left with a loud snap, and then whipping it to the right with another, before letting it twist back to settle on me. "Now, I'm not usually in the business of icing children--"

"Gross,"

His eyebrows lower just a shade. "But you make it awfully tempting. We've got you dead to rights. And you know how many of our fucking operations you kids have fucked up by us not just shooting you in the fucking face at the nearest fucking opportunity? This would be, like… what… six? Seven? You've all become a problem."