He suspected he was being followed.
A sunset lingered on the horizon, casting long shadows on the grim houses layered with soot, dust, and sorrow. Along a running path threading between the blocks, the silhouette of an athlete clad in a dark-blue tracksuit stretched longer with each stride. His breathing and heart rate quickened.
Midway through his usual route, he weaved past yards and tin roofs creaking in the wind. He had sensed a presence behind him for several minutes. A figure he couldn't quite discern. He slid one earbud out of his ear and nestled it inside a strap on the back of his right hand, turning his focus to the rhythm of his footsteps and the distant hum of cars.
The unknown man remained a steady seven meters behind. Was it merely another runner sharing his route? As the athlete dabbed sweat from his forehead, he stole a glance back. The stranger wore dress pants and a black cotton shirt, certainly not typical jogging attire.
He sprinted across a scrapyard littered with mountains of crushed barrels, discarded boxes, and defunct heavy machinery. Approaching the yard's end, he pivoted, jogged in place, and then retraced his steps. The pursuer passed him and halted, a smile creeping across his face. "Changing course today, are we?"
The athlete faced him, keeping his legs moving, sand churning beneath his shoes. "How do you know my route?"
The follower maintained his jogging motion. "I've been around for a few days. I've learned enough about you."
Gritting his teeth and shaking his head, the athlete paused, hands resting on his knees as he leaned forward, gasping for breath. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
His pursuer stopped jogging, glanced around, his grin widening. "Move along, and spare yourself the questions. The answers won't please you." He pointed forward with a steady hand. "Resume your regular path."
Undeterred, the athlete remained still, sweat dripping onto the sand. He straightened up. "No. It doesn't work that way. I want to know who you are, what you want from me."
The stalker chuckled, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with his breath. "From you? I don't want a thing. Now get moving, Valeri. I run a tight schedule."
Valeri, the athlete, removed the remaining earbud and fished out a cellphone from his pocket. "Tell me who you are and what you want, or I'll call the police."
His pursuer took one menacing step forward. The world spun as Valeri suddenly lost his footing. A jolt of blinding pain surged through his arm, and the sky darkened. His body rolled once before he landed sprawled on the ground, his phone skidding away.
The stalker stooped to retrieve the phone, standing over Valeri. His face was a mask of cold hardness, his voice dropped to a chilling murmur. "Now, get up and run."
Valeri's fingers clawed into the sand as he rolled onto his front, staggering to his feet, one hand almost lifeless. He started to run again, limping, his pace growing faster. Could he outrun this man? Unlikely. The stranger appeared in excellent shape. He stood no chance, not in his current weary state.
They dashed past low buildings, houses, yards. They crossed a cobbled square, a dry, rust-coated fountain looming heavily in the center. As they neared the square's end, the stalker commanded, "To the right. That building. Go."
Valeri halted, keeping his feet moving on the spot. "Why? Why there?" he demanded.
"Just run there. No questions," the follower's voice held an edge of fury as he pointed towards an abandoned building. Its windows were barred with twisted metal, its entrance breached, and the concrete walls crumbling.
No, this can't be right. I'd be trapped if I go in there. Drawing a deep breath, Valeri let out half of it and bolted in the opposite direction. Barely ten strides later, an intense pain exploded in his right hip, sending him sprawling to the ground, writhing in agony.
The follower towered over him, a precise mustache visible above a prominent upper lip. "You don't want to go against me," he warned, leaning down. "You'll be dead within a minute." His hand moved swiftly towards Valeri's throat. "Do as I say, and your suffering will be minimal."
Valeri attempted to resist, mustering all his strength to lift himself a few inches off the slick cobblestones. A sudden pressure sent a painful jolt through his throat, and he fell backwards. He nodded slowly, accepting the inevitable. His adversary was swift and strong, like a predator bird.
The follower stepped back, allowing Valeri to rise with considerable effort and hobble towards the decrepit building. He was prodded forward into an exposed wall. The air inside smelled of decay and damp cellars, layers of dust and cobwebs everywhere, piles of trash and old newspapers in the corners.
Each movement echoed ceaselessly within the structure. A silver gun materialized in the stalker's hand, pressing the muzzle against the back of Valeri's neck. "It's nothing personal," he murmured.
"No. No. Why? Why?" Valeri sobbed, his shoulders quaking. "What have I done to you? What do you want from me? Are you a sadistic serial killer?"
"I don't want anything from you. But your father, on the other hand..." A dull click echoed ominously as the gun was cocked. "Your father is a threat to my country." Another click. The follower took a step back. "You know what? I give up on you."
Valeri spun around, eyes wide in disbelief. "What? Are you letting me go?" His father's dealings were bound to ensnare him one day, he knew it. And it had arrived, too soon, too close. He had been an accomplice, helping in the workshop, building dirty bombs, melting toxic elements, tracking people.
The follower nodded. "Yes. I'm letting you go." He tossed the phone back. "Call your father, tell him to pick you up from the square, near the fountain." He gestured with the gun. "Exactly, from the square, near the fountain."
Hesitating, Valeri dialed his father's number but paused before hitting the call button. Is he planning to harm my father? No, I can't allow that. Father will come with an escort, armed. Father will outsmart him. He hit call. "Father?" Valeri feigned distress. "I've fallen, halfway through my run. Could you come pick me up? No. Don't send the driver. I need you. I'm in the square, by the fountain."
After hanging up, Valeri said, "He'll be here in another..."
The deafening crack of gunfire echoed around them, a flash of white light searing his vision. The sound ricocheted, reverberating throughout the dilapidated building.
A body fell.
The fountain's shadow draped over the pit.
The walls of the pit were slick with black moss, coating Sikandar Pitafi's feet in a wet, bacteria-ridden layer. A potent smell rose from the depths of the labyrinthine canals, not offensive, but heavy and disorienting.
Looking up, he noted the pit lid composed of long, twisted bars, through which the last light of day seeped. The moon glided towards the center of the sky. Inhaling deeply, fresh air from the world above filled his lungs. His hands and feet pressed against the sides, suspending him in the air, near the barred cover without a ladder.
Long minutes passed. He knew the people involved, knew the value in patience. The man responsible for countless innocent deaths in his home country, Pakistan, cherished his only son. He would undoubtedly arrive personally to retrieve him.
However, this time there would be little left to collect. Ghislaine, better known as Gila, was likely still in his office, orchestrating his international operatives. But he would come. Sikandar had been in France long enough - two weeks - to understand this.
The distant rumble of an engine echoed through the deserted square. A car, long and black, neared, its noise growing louder as it parked beside the fountain. A door opened. Sikandar peered through the bars as a polished boot met the cobblestones of the square.
Ghislaine, now retired, was Valerie's father and an enemy of Pakistan. His voice echoed evilly across the square, "Valerie! Valerie! Where are you? You didn't drag me out here for nothing, where are you!" His tone was one of perpetual rage, used on everyone he encountered.
"Might as well call a cab, the cheeky boy! He couldn't wait for his old man to pick him up. So what if I'm late? What happened?" He climbed back into the car, leaving the door open while dialing on his phone.
Sikandar extended his hand through the bars of the pit lid, holding a rectangular device. Using his familiarity with car mechanics, he swiftly affixed it to the underside of the car, right above the oil pan.
"Where is he?" Ghislaine's voice thundered from the car. "Where, where, where. He's not answering. Now. You hear that, he's not answering?"
Another voice emanated from inside the car. "Ah, boss. I think I hear your son's phone. Over there, outside."
Ghislaine exited again, approaching the fountain. He peered inside. His eyes widened. Clasping his face in his hands, he muttered, "No. No. No... What happened? Who did this? Oh, oh, no." His voice, thick with grief, sobbed, "Oh, my Valerie..." He cradled his son, struggling to lift him into the car. Shouting at the driver, "Drive, drive, drive, drive. We're in a danger zone." The door slammed shut.
The car's wheels skidded on the cobblestones of the square, finally gaining traction and lunging forward, white smoke billowing, the stench of rubber filling the air.
Sikandar shoved aside the bars and hoisted himself out of the pit. He heaved, crawling towards the fountain. A remote control materialized in his palm. He pressed down firmly.
The back of Ghislaine's vehicle erupted in a fireball, red and raging. Shards of metal flew in all directions. The car lifted off the ground, then fell back, sliding forward uncontrollably. The flaming wreckage smashed into a concrete wall and came to a stop.
