 
Absolute Goner

Ivaylo Gogov

Copyright 2020 Ivaylo Gogov

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Table of contents

Prologue

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

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18.

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29.

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31.

32.

33.

34.

35.

36.

37.

38.

39.

Acknowledgments

###  Prologue

Gunshots sound differently in your sleep. The human brain comes up with some bizarre plots to make sense of the unexpected sharp reports and mask the threat. That's happened to me twice. The first time, I dreamed that the aluminium door of my hospital room was repeatedly slamming against the frame under the force of the wind. It was swinging wildly and I was desperately straining and failing to reach the handle. In my second dream, I was in a low-ceilinged laboratory where the pedestal fan was out of whack, its blades rattling against the wire guards. I was getting really hot and starting to think I might suffocate when the fan somehow wound up on the ceiling and next thing I know drops of cold water were spraying over me.

Both times I ended up waking up from the gunshots, only to find myself in really sticky situations.

But this was different. The shots sounded loud and clear, sharp and harsh, just as rounds fired from a handgun are supposed to. Besides, I wasn't all the way asleep, having been stirred by a serious ruckus a minute earlier.

### 1.

My name is Emil. I'm forty-three and my life is straight up crappy. When I say crappy, I don't mean three-days-worth-of-delay-of-my-salary crappy. Oh, no.

What I wouldn't give for a permanent address and a regular job! Nine to five every workday, sometimes Saturday mornings... An office coffee machine in constant need of water refill, lunches with colleagues who tell old jokes, Friday nights spent in clubs that play retro music, occasionally in piano bars with even more retro repertoires. Salary boosting my bank account every first day of the month, or sometimes with a three-day delay.

What I wouldn't give for that life!

Then again, I probably wouldn't give anything. Simply because I have nothing to give. Plus, I don't like empty talk.

You don't get what I'm saying?!

Well, that's the trouble with having a crappy life. People with permanent addresses and standard working hours don't get me. My world is different from theirs. Different from yours.

In another life, I used to live like you. I would wear ironed shirts and keep my hair combed back, my shoes polished and my name tag inscribed in two languages. I would move swiftly, talk sparingly, earn big money and just plow ahead. I was untouchable and immortal.

Those years are long gone, consigned to oblivion. You probably have no way of knowing this, but crappy life has this knack for making all memories fade, especially the good ones. There one moment and gone the next, like footprints in the sand or snowflakes in early November.

What is etched in my memory, though, is the incessant whining, a ritual as old as time. Whining about how bad traffic was, how coffee was no good anymore, who the boss's new right hand was, who wasn't the boss's right hand, what had happened the previous night, what hadn't happen the previous night... whining about others whining and about no one having whined lately.

Still not getting me?

People around me would have mental break-downs over their salary payments being three days late. Or failing to squeeze into their last year's swimsuit. Some would go into depression just because their swimsuit was last year's collection. They would despair of the rising interest rates, the falling Christmas bonuses and the presence of gluten and palm oil in their healthy vegan menu. They would say all the time how utterly crappy their lives were. Every day they were on the verge of suicide, pouring money into the pharmaceutical industry—more specifically, the happy-pill segment of its vast spectrum.

Well, now I could tell them all about what crappy life is like. It's such a long story that they would forget the antidepressants and grab for the sleeping pills. I don't see myself making the effort to enlighten them, though. I don't like wasting my breath.

I try to live a peaceful life and not get in anyone's way. I try to steer clear of trouble, stay out of conflicts and keep any advice I might have to myself. I mind my own business, pretend not to see or hear anything. I don't answer questions, respond to gibes, or let insults get to me. I don't get into arguments or feel the need to voice my opinion. I'm not too keen on adventures either, have no taste for heroics and dislike taking risk, even to save my crappy life.

By some cruel twist of fate, it's the risks that I have taken that have made my life crappy. Insane risks that tend to start out as harmless and perfectly logical actions born out of compassion and kindness.

If you really want a taste of crappy life, start acting like me. I give you my word, it'll be no more than a year before you wake up aimless in some abandoned beach bar with twenty bucks in your pocket and about to have a few good men hard on your heels, hell bent on doing you in.

***

The beach bar wasn't truly abandoned. Just closed for the season and huddled in darkness and quiet, waiting for next summer. The owners—or renters—had cleared the place of any furniture or equipment to the point they hadn't even bothered to lock up. The only thing of value in the rickety wooden building were the walls, which provided shelter from the biting wind, and the curtains made out of fishing nets, which a man desperate enough to spend the night in a deserted bar on the seashore could use as covers. The salty dampness of wet sand seeped through the cracks of the sparsely laid floorboards, while the cane-reed roof might have provided nice protection against the unforgiving summer sun, but it definitely wasn't equipped to handle the sly autumn rain.

The building was far away from the road and grooves barely visible among the sand dunes were the only reminder that until a few weeks ago the place had been buzzing with excitement and bacchanalian parties. Crushed beer cans, discolored cigarette packs and several square bottles were strewn among prickly patches of dry grass dotting the area around the beach bar. On my way in, I had noticed a crumbling flip-flop and a thin syringe by the door. The moon had been only a dull silhouette behind a runny veil of milky clouds, and I had been in a hurry, shaking from the cold, so I might have seen wrong.

Now I used my lighter to take a look around the room, hoping for a sink or at least a bottle of mineral water left behind, but I wasn't that lucky. The place was stripped bare. Even the light switches and the electrical sockets had been pulled out, leaving twisting cables to silently stare at me from the walls and the cane roof overhead. The only item that wasn't a board, a cane reed, or a piece of fishing net was a flyer advertising a beach party with someone named DJ BMG. I pulled it out from a crack in the floor and scanned the photos of half-naked girls with bleached hair getting sprayed with champagne by bronze-skinned, beefy young men with pirate beards ala Sandokan. How desperate must one be to lust after this particular brand of bliss?!

The lighter started to feel too hot against my thumb so I put it aside. I pulled down the curtains and folded them twice over. I lay down on the floorboards in one corner and wrapped myself in the makeshift cover. I rested my head on a pillow of my own hands and smiled. Life hadn't always been nice to me. Crappy life even less so. I was used to taking whatever I could get because there might be even less for me around the next corner.

***

I don't like empty talk. I don't like existential crises either. I have a strategy that satisfies any question that may bubble up: I am where I am and I do what I do. At this very moment, thousands of people around the globe are struggling to survive in dim hospital rooms, depressive jail cells, or muddy trenches smeared with crap. Thousands of others are taking their last breath, crushed by distorted metal in car accidents; having a heart attack, or swallowing a deadly handful of toxic pills. At this very moment, somewhere around the globe thousands of people are saying their last goodbye to each other, getting beaten to death, or falling into the wormholes of human trafficking, slavery, prostitution and God knows what else. The modern world offers a rich combo plate of refined entertainments for all tastes.

So I have nothing to complain about.

***

I had nothing to complain about.

I was sheltered from the wind and had a roof over my head. I still had that twenty-buck bill, a pack of gum to stay my hunger and a promise for a decent job half a day away from here. It wasn't that bad for early November.

### 2.

I couldn't tell how many of them there were.

I woke up to voices quarreling. Outside, several men were talking at the same time, as if they were trying to outtalk each other. I couldn't make anything of what they were saying, just heard snippets in English and some gibberish in another language that sounded like Turkish to my hazy mind. So it could just as well have been Portuguese. Amid the sounds of waves crashing into the shore, the words were washing over me in surges, carried by the salty air, distorted by the cold and my sleep-muddled senses. Still, I managed to figure out that two of the voices—the ones speaking English—were trying to shut the rest up.

Scared to move, I hoped to hell that none of the quarrelling men would get the idea to go inside. As far as I could tell, more so from the intonation than the words, they were all on edge. They were liable to get tired of shouting and start settling their scores like real men soon. Inserting myself into an argument of such intensity had repeatedly proven to be an unhealthy choice for me. Most of my run-ins with angry types had had quick, unpleasant resolutions, but there had also been times I had found myself locked in seedy places with my hands tied up, forced to do disgusting things against my will.

Fully awake, I sat up with my body pressed even closer to the wall and listened more carefully. The men were four or five. Well, there might have been twenty of them but only five were talking. It sounded like they were throwing accusations at each other—broken promises, double-dealing, unpaid debt, lies, betrayal and other sins of distressing nature. They were likely leveling other accusations too, but I could catch only a word here and there, jumping out of the cacophony of poor English and Turkish/Portuguese, like dolphins out of the sea.

It struck me as odd for a group of men to choose the beach on a cold November night to settle their business problems. These things were usually done in expensive restaurants or—as a last resort—glitzy offices. Unless...

Six bullets were fired in quick succession. Measured, decisive shots. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang! All six rounds in no more than two seconds. Something heavy thudded against the wooden wall inches from my head and then dropped to the ground with a rustle. Silence fell.

These were the unmistakable sounds of murder.

It wasn't like this was my first rodeo.

I was sure that a human body was lying outside, slumped against the wooden wall, a body that was never going to rise again.

Shit!

***

The voices had finally subsided into quiet. The distant thunder of the surf returned and drowned everything else out. Three car doors clicked shut and the whir of a powerful engine filled the night. The car quickly pulled away and I thought I could smell diesel exhaust.

Silence settled over the scene.

I slowly exhaled the air trapped in my lungs and swallowed hard.

***

Have you ever fired a handgun?

You can go through a whole clip and still miss the target from three steps away. Most people shoot and hope for the best, freeze after the first round. Some even drop the gun. The more experienced ones are good for about three shots. But you have to be really cocky to fire six rounds in succession without flinching.

These were no small-town crooks. The shooter was practiced, trained to hit the target—probably by the army or the police, likely in one of those especially nifty units.

My thoughts were interrupted by a muffled moan. At first I took it for the sound of floorboards creaking disturbed by the wind, but then I listened more closely and caught it again—it was coming from outside.

Somewhere close, a man was moaning.

So not everyone was gone, one way or another.

I wanted to peek out the window and scan the area. Unfortunately, the windows faced the opposite way, overlooking the sea. I knew perfectly well what I had to do—climb out of one of them and dash for the dark horizon without looking back.

Instead, I crawled to the door and cracked it open.

The moon was now completely concealed by a blanket of clouds, shining only a pale, ghostly light on the scene, but it was enough to reveal a dark silhouette lying on the sand. The grass around the male form swayed nervously in stark contrast with his inert body.

The moans clearly indicated he was still alive.

Shit!

I looked around and saw nothing but sand dunes, cane and trees.

It wasn't until I came out of my temporary shelter that I saw the other guy.

The source of the moans was actually sitting, his back resting against the wooden wall. Another man's body was sprawled out a little further away, with yet another one next to it.

Shit!

It took me about a minute to confirm that the three prone men were dead. And no more than a second to figure out that the fourth was hurtling down the same road at breakneck speed. I couldn't see a wound because his front was sticky and glistening black in the night. His suit jacket—probably gray before the disastrous rendezvous—was darkened from the right shoulder all the way to the pockets, and his shirt could easily serve as a Rorschach inkblot test. I grabbed him by the shoulders and proceeded to ask absurd questions like "Are you OK?", "Are you hurt?", "Are you in pain?" etc., as my brain kept rejecting reality.

The man didn't answer any of them, he didn't need to. Even in the frail light seeping through the clouds, it was obvious that he was in desperate need of emergency medical interventions. Serious blood transfusion, for starters.

In moments like this I wished I had a cell phone.

There couldn't be that many hardheaded holdouts in Bulgaria who still refused to get one of those gadgets, but I was one of them. And I had never really felt the need for it. Except in moments like this.

I checked the guy's pockets, first the suit jacket, then the pants. I found only a wallet and a passport. The passport was definitely not Bulgarian—there was an eagle or a shield or both on the cover and plenty of doodles in Arabic. I had no time for linguistic research, so I put it away and moved to the tricky back pockets of the poor soul's pants.

The guy's moans were getting less frequent.

Shit!

And then I saw it. The phone in his palm. This foreigner had probably had the same idea as me but couldn't muster the strength. It didn't take me long to pry the small device out of his sticky fingers. I wiped it on the sleeve of his already bloodied jacket and dialed 112, the emergency number for the EU.

The call lasted way longer than I would have liked.

I reported the number of wounded people and gave a relatively accurate description of the location. I had to repeat everything twice, and the dispatcher's inadequacy got on my nerves. I hung up before he could ask me more questions and put the phone in the wounded man's pocket.

It was time to split.

Using every last bit of his energy, the poor guy reached and grabbed my elbow. It was more of a touch, actually. Another moan left his lips, only this time it sounded like coherent speech. In broken English, he was begging me to help him, to not leave him.

I told him that I had called for help, told him to hang on until the paramedics came. He either didn't hear me or didn't understand me because he repeated his request. With his other hand, he shoved a yellow piece of paper in my face.

Two hundred bucks.

I made another effort to calm him down, didn't work the second time either. I gently pushed his hand back, but he was straining, mumbling incoherently and generally looking like he was about to kick the bucket. It wasn't until I took the bill that he finally relaxed, somewhat.

He kept asking me to help him, stay with him, but I saw no point in explaining anything to him. The man was in shock, if not even delirious. He was saying the same thing over and over, as if he would never stop, but the slackening grip of his fingers suggested he didn't have much time left. My presence must have given him comfort because I thought I saw him smile. But my eyes were already searching the darkness for signs of trouble so they might have played a trick on me.

It wasn't long before the signs of trouble showed up.

In the far distance, to the south, the paved road curved near the rocky seashore. It was from there that I had spotted the abandoned beach bar at dusk. Now the bend in the road was flooded with bright headlights and flashing red lights. The emergency number dispatcher had taken me seriously. The ambulances, assuming that the hospital in the nearby town had more than one, were going to be at the wooden building in four-five minutes.

In five more, the whole area would be crawling with police until the morning. The landscape was about to get extremely busy and tense. It wasn't an experience I cared for so I fully intended to pass on it.

I made sure the man was propped comfortably against the wall, patted him on the good shoulder and ran for the sea. I waded into a tangle of mossy seaweed, its smelly flesh pulled at my legs, slowing my steps. Frothy waves lapped the coolly pale coastline. If I wanted to get away quickly, I needed to walk, even run, on the smooth, damp sand of the surf—where my footsteps would disappear in seconds, leaving no tracks to be followed.

I glanced to the south and caught sight of the rocks projecting out over the sea in the far distance. Even further away, several miles from the bend in the road, the sky was turning yellow. The street lamps of the small town below were glowing beneath scowling clouds. I had no intention of spending the winter on the beach. I needed to get to town, act like a late tourist and find myself a ride north to Burgas, the nearest major city.

The wet sand under my feet felt like walking on pavement. The only inconvenience was that it was wet. My shoes were sturdy and in fine shape, but after a half hour water started seeping in. The good thing about sturdy shoes in fine shape is that they hold up well against water. The bad thing is that once they get soaked, it takes an eternity for them to dry. If I didn't want my feet to be wet for the next two days, I had to get away from the sea or walk barefoot. I changed lanes to the drier part of the beach and quickened my pace. I glanced behind me a few times, but no one seemed to be following me or searching the coastline with flashlights. I figured they were still pretty busy with the scene of the triple—if not already quadruple—murder.

Shit!

Couldn't those idiots have picked another place?! Of the fucking entire Black Sea coast, sprawling over more than three hundred and fifty kilometers , they just had to shoot each other right outside of the abandoned bar where I had planned to spend a quiet night!

Couldn't they have gone someplace else? Couldn't they have met tomorrow night? Couldn't they have talked things over like grown men? Why did they have to pull out the guns? Why did they have to kill each other? And why did they have to botch the job, leaving one half-dead behind?

Shit!

### 3.

Have you ever passed through the quaint small town of Izgrev, just a speck on the map and barely there on distance signs along the main road connecting Burgas and the resort town of Sinemorets? Prior to that night, I had only been once, years ago, and my memories weren't all that pleasant. True, I had been younger then and the streets had been bustling with tourists, half of them drunk or stoned and practically begging for a good beating... Whatever, water under the bridge.

Now, in early November, there was no trace of the tourist-season excitement in the small town. The hotels were dark, the drinking and dining establishments shuttered, the shops had packed their colorful merchandise and stored it away, the outdoor cafes were gone. The streets, until recently teeming with tourists, were now back to perfectly ordinary small streets in a perfectly ordinary small town. The houses were creaking in the cold and quiet, with the occasional lit window serving as the only indication that the town was populated. Smoke was curling upwards from a chimney, filling the air with the acrid smell of winter. A fat black cat jumped out of a nearby trash can and streaked across the street. Yup, I get to scare instead of getting scared at times.

The only open place this early in the morning was a fancy gas station. The sharp glare of its lights was a tempting promise of civilization, restrooms and hot coffee.

I needed a cup of the stimulating black liquid and a moment to plan my next move. Walking to Izgrev, first along the beach and then the road into town, my thoughts had kept scattering. Now my inner voice was telling me to hide and wait two or three days for the hubbub to die down. My other inner voice, that of the idiot in me, was urging me to go stand at the roadside, arm outstretched, thumb pointing up. A third voice was crowing as if saying aren't you screwed enough already, dumbass? I rarely paid attention to my inner voices. So I fished out what small change I could find in my pockets, clutched the coins as if they were a small treasure and nudged the gas station door open. A young girl in red shirt was behind the counter. She looked like a schoolgirl, but when you're forty-three a lot of people start to look like students to you.

"Good morning," I greeted quietly. "May I have coffee, please?"

It struck me as odd for a girl to be manning the cash register during the night shift, so I looked around, expecting to see some male co-worker dozing in a corner. But she was alone. And probably thought it was strange that a filthy stranger was asking for coffee at daybreak. She seemed genuinely puzzled and stared at me as if I was an alien. I had gotten used to these genuinely puzzled looks over time. It wasn't like I didn't see them all the time. But the girl was overdoing the staring thing. I grew uncomfortable with the exchange of stares and lowered my gaze. And went stiff with horror. At that moment, in the light, I finally saw that both my jacket and palms were smeared with blood.

Great!

I placed the coins on the counter and felt as if I was being inked for fingerprints at the police station.

"Espresso or double espresso?" the girl finally asked. I raised my gaze slightly, enough to see the name tag on her shirt. Veronica. Veronica Shopova.

"Medium," I said, mumbled some excuse and headed for the restroom.

***

I locked the door to the restroom, took off my denim jacket, turned it inside out and folded it. The blood hadn't soaked through the thick fabric and the inside looked clean. I washed my hands carefully and then my face. I finger-combed my hair, fixed the collar of my woolen checked shirt and went to one of the urinals. As I was peeing, I noticed that my shoes were completely clean, polished to a dull shine by the grains of sand I had walked through. If only I could feel the same way, clean and polished... I would roll in the sand until I passed out if I thought that would work.

I flushed the toilet and heard voices over the gush of water. I unlocked the door cautiously and peeked out through the crack. Uniformed police officers were standing with the girl—a man and a woman. They were talking calmly, almost friendly. Finally, the toilet tank trailed off and I could hear their words.

"...in a Burgas hospital," the policewoman was saying as she was taking a sip of her coffee. "He may pull through."

"He got lucky!" her fellow officer added. "Someone was there and called the emergency number just in time."

"Some luck! Getting shot twice..."

"What about the others?" Veronica, the girl at the cash register, asked.

"Now they weren't so lucky."

"Horrible!"

Even though I could see the policewoman's face only in three-quarter profile, she immediately caught my eye. I had seen plenty of beautiful women in law enforcement, but this one looked like she had jumped out of a magazine cover. She was a stunner and she knew it. She also gave off the vibe that she was aware of her superiority.

Next to her, her colleague looked straight-up dull. He was easily forgettable—anywhere from forty to fifty-five years old, neither tall nor short, neither slim nor fat.

"Never mind that," the policeman dropped a cube of sugar in his coffee, "we're not getting much sleep in the next couple of days because of this incident."

"Yes, people will be on edge," Veronica agreed.

"I'm talking about the guys in the police," he corrected.

"I'm thinking that county police will take over the case," the policewoman shook her head, her long black ponytail swinging in sync. "We don't have the manpower."

"Let's hope so!"

"At the most, we'll get sent to watch the road to Burgas, be stuck there until the evening."

"It's already been reported that patrols have been organized."

"I hate murders," the policewoman said on a sigh.

"Nothing lasts forever," her colleague returned, putting a bow on the topic. "This, too, will blow over."

"Would you like croissants?" Veronica asked. "They'll be ready in ten."

"Thanks, but we got to go," the policeman said, putting his hat on. "It's going to be a long day."

"And cold," his colleague added. "Very cold."

The policeman gentlemanly let her walk ahead of him and waved the girl goodbye on his way out.

***

I closed the door carefully and took a look at myself in the mirror. If one day my picture ended up in the dictionary next to the word loser, it would show me as I was at that very moment.

I got all my personal items from the jacket and stuffed them into my shirt and jeans pockets. I shoved the jacket behind the trash can. I figured no one would steal it in the next twenty or so minutes. I would worry about it later... I got out of the restroom, picked my coffee from the counter and sat at a table at the back of the small, brightly lit gas station, with my back turned to Veronica. The girl seemed to have lost interest in me and was checking on the oven, from where a mouth-watering aroma of pastry was wafting through the air.

The coffee was very fragrant too. Intoxicatingly dark, slightly sour and strong.

I took out the bill I had gotten from the wounded guy. It was lemon green, with telltale red stains that had started to turn brown. I might be able to pass those off as the result of spilled coffee, but it would take a gullible audience. A professional, let alone laboratory testing, would get to the truth in seconds.

I had to get rid of the blood-stained money, but I didn't have the heart to do it. In my crappy everyday life this kind of money was enough to see me through a week. Sometimes more.

The door to the gas station opened and I instinctively scrunched the bill in my hand. The last thing I needed was for the two cops to catch me fiddling with a two hundred buck bill soiled with the blood of the "lucky guy", as they had called him. But it wasn't the cops.

Two brawny fellows barely squeezed in the space in front of the counter. The type of purebred Burgas bullies who can benchpress a hundred and eighty kilograms . Do several repetitions.

I saw Veronica bristle like a stray cat at the sight of a stray dog. Apparently the fellas missed that reaction because they started to mess with her, no light teasing either. The one openly making a pass at her probably didn't have a single hair on his body. He had a shaved head and, from what I could see, plucked eyebrows. He looked like Mr. Clean. Unlike him, his buddy had a full head of hair, while his eyebrows... they had a pronounced curve in the middle, as if he was constantly moved by something.

Baldy was definitely the dominant bully in the pair. He was the only one talking.

"Any strangers shown up around here?"

"No one has come in all night," Veronica reported.

"Think carefully, Snow White," Mr. Clean winked at her. "Earn your tip."

"Uncle Zachary was here just a minute ago," the girl nodded. "With that woman, his new partner."

"The cops?" the bully slammed his hand on the counter. "Are you jerking me around here?"

"No, they really..."

"Don't care about those two. I'm asking you about anyone you don't know."

"Besides the mister sitting there..." Veronica tipped her chin in my direction and I turned away. I wasn't dying to chat with the burly morons.

"Hey, Tyson Fury!" The beefy guy shouted, "Who the hell are you?"

I figured it was better not to respond right away. Otherwise there was a chance they wouldn't buy what I was about to try sell them. Guys like them make up for what they lack upstairs with a strong intuition.

"Yo, Muhammad Ali, I'm talking to you!"

I took a sip of my coffee and started snickering low.

"Something funny or what?" baldy took several big, heavy steps toward me. "Think you'll be able to smile after I cave your face in?"

This wasn't my first time dealing with a primitive type like him. I had actually spent half my life around his kind. They see other people as either drug addicts, faggots, or brainiacs with college degrees; all three categories get the same treatment. I just had to pick a role to play. I knew he had already had a good look at me. I was dressed as a teleporter from the 20th century, carried no baggage and was sitting alone with my back turned to the world, and more specifically him. In other words, trash.

"What's your deal?"

Good question. Whatever it was, it was time to play my cards.

"Stupid whore!" I snickered again. "I come here all the way from Pleven and she tells me she no longer loves me."

"Who's that, Tyson?" the beefy guy, startled. "Whatcha talking about?"

"I even brought her flowers like a complete schmuck."

"Yo, buddy, you taking speed or what?"

"We got together in the summer," I laughed quietly and shook my head. "She promised me we would marry and now she has someone else. I blew all my money on her. Stupid whore. And now I've nowhere to sleep."

I suddenly turned serious.

"Boys, can you lend me a couple of bucks? Just to get myself a mini of booze."

"And how 'bout I sock you?"

It was a wonder none of them punched me. Actually, it wasn't all that surprising because the girl asked them not to.

"Beeby, leave the man alone."

Beeby. Beeby! It probably came from "baby", he must have finally given up the pacifier recently.

"Whut?" the thug turned around to face the cash register. "You said somethin' or what?"

"He hasn't done anything to you. Please leave him alone."

The burly guy seemed to like the please part. He was practically melting. So he simply threw me out, barely had to strain his massive bulk to do it too. He grabbed me by my elbows and pushed me all the way out to the concrete-covered area between the gas pumps. All in one move. He wished me a good day in his own way, which sounded something like if I spot you again, you're an absolute goner. I fully intended to heed his warning, so I took a few more steps on my own and slipped among the evergreen bushes. My hiding place allowed me to observe without running the risk of being thrown out again. I hoped that their nice chat wouldn't get the girl to mention my jacket. I was also hoping that they wouldn't have to use the restroom.

The beefy guy talked with Veronica for a bit longer and reached to caress her cheek. But she pulled away in time and told him something that visibly displeased him. He pouted for a second, then slapped her. Just like that, whack, as if he was shooing an annoying insect. Her ponytail jumped from the force of the impact and her eyes welled up. The swole guy said something to her, seemed to spit in her face and walked out. Muttering something, he headed for his black BMW, illegally parked across three spots outside the gas station. The other one, with the moved-expression mask, took some items from the shelves, placed them in a paper bag and tossed some change on the counter. In a minute, the two disappeared in the glittering dampness of the sleepy morning.

***

The tough guy that I was, I didn't go back to the gas station until the engine of the SUV could no longer be heard. The girl at the cash register was holding a bag of ice to her reddened cheek. Asking her whether she was OK, hurt, or in pain was pointless.

"Do you know them?"

"Everyone around here knows them," she said, turning away, probably to hide her face.

"You should file a complaint with the police. This is assault."

Veronica just shook her head as I continued to preach, "Don't leave things like this because it'll only get worse from here. It's for your own good..."

"You better leave. And don't ask any more questions."

"You shouldn't..."

She threw me a look over her shoulder and lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. I followed her gaze and saw what I had missed earlier—there gas station had surveillance cameras, inside and outside. If they were working, and there was no reason to believe otherwise, my mug was on tape—in profile and full face. A real TV star.

Great!

What had that voice been whispering to me earlier? Aren't you screwed enough already, dumbass?

Then I remembered my jacket hidden in the restroom. It had the blood of that poor guy on it. If someone found the jacket and thought of looking at the security camera footage, I would be crowned primary suspect for the outrage by the abandoned bar in a blink of an eye. And I had absolutely no desire to get involved more than I already was.

I nodded to the girl and went to the restroom. Took the folded jacket and went out through the service entrance. I couldn't believe I had not thought of the cameras. I could have kicked myself for that.

Maybe my age was showing.

But I had more important problems to deal with. For starters, where to now? There was no telling whom I might meet if I stuck to the streets. Getting rid of the jacket ASAP was not a bad idea. But I didn't want to just chuck it into the first trash can. Someone could find it there.

As appealing as it had been at the beginning, the idea to come to town now seemed equally idiotic. I had no money for a hotel room and no means to earn any. I could always take shelter in some deserted house, but in small towns nothing went unnoticed for long. I had to get away. If the police officers were to be believed, there was a road blockade to the north. Maybe I could cross it as a hitchhiker next to some truck driver, but the likelihood of getting pulled over was actually big. I don't know why, but every time I meet a cop, something in them, or me, makes them grow suspicious. Then comes the inevitable checking of my ID, ransacking of my baggage, searching of my pockets and asking of annoying questions, which quickly turn from innocent to accusatory... I usually end up in some stinky police station with hands cuffed behind my back.

The twenty buck bill was likely enough to buy me a bus ticket to Burgas, as had been my initial plan. But that trip also included crossing the police blockade, which meant that these equations had the same unknown variable. As Maria Todorova, my high school math teacher, liked to say.

No, no.

I would wait the blockade out. Avoid attracting unnecessary attention.

### 4.

I left the town in the opposite direction, heading south. As the sky was clearing, I walked past a sparse pine forest to my left, at the edge of which there was a sheet-metal shed with a bench. It was probably where the intercity bus stopped. Or used to stop last century. To the right of the road sprawled a vineyard silvery with frost. My eyes were drawn to a shabby scarecrow deep between the rows of vines. I immediately thought it would make a great final stop for my now useless jacket. I climbed over the wire fencing and started making my way through the plants. The bare ground had iced over, but the ice covering was not thick enough to hold up under my weight so my shoes sank deep into the mud underneath.

I dressed the scarecrow in my denim jacket just as it was—turned inside-out—so that the blood stayed concealed. My present took years off of the scarecrow's look and brightened it up. The jacket suited it so well that for a second I felt like I had already seen a denim-dressed scarecrow somewhere. On the cover of an H&M or Benetton catalogue or something.

The jacket was perfectly hidden in plain sight. It would remain undiscovered until February when the farmhands finally came to prune the vines. I fumbled in the pockets for something I might have left there, but they were empty. There was no trace left of me ever owning the jacket. I had gotten rid of it.

Once again I briefly considered throwing away the two hundred bucks but thought better of it. One of the lessons of crappy life was to never throw money away, even if it was bloodstained. Besides, not counting the yellow bill, I had all of 20 bucks.

Have you ever imagined how many times a bill changes hands over the course of its lifespan, what things it helps pay for, or the joy or sorrow it brings? It must be thousands, millions of times. Have you ever pictured the bills traipsing around pockets and cities for years, from the time they are printed until the day they are taken out of circulation? Such thoughts make my head spin. It's like watching shoals of fish darting around on some science channel program.

I pulled out the twenty bucks and examined the bluish paper. I could still see the dark smudge left by my thumb two days earlier when I helped Milen Stoyanov change a flat tire.

***

One of the best things about paved roads is that they offer you a chance to meet people you would otherwise never cross paths with.

I spotted the SUV first: massive, striking and all white, except for the tires and the flashing hazard lights. The grille was sporting the all-too-familiar four-ring emblem. Then I saw the driver, his all-white look disturbed only by dark curly hair. He looked like a model freshly off the runway of an Armani fashion show. Even on a gray, cold day the guy was wearing a linen shirt and sunglasses. He was talking animatedly on the phone, gesticulating, agitatedly pacing around his car. I heard him asking the person on the other end what was all the delay about and giving him a minute to show up. He obviously didn't appreciate what he heard next because he cursed and tossed his phone on the driver's seat. Then came a flurry of action as he banged his fist on the roof, kicked the front tire and hurled his sunglasses on the pavement. Well, the weather was gloomy anyway.

As I was passing by, I noticed that the back right tire of the glitzy vehicle was flat. Maybe that explained the man's meltdown. I put the bag of groceries I was carrying down on the side of the road and walked several steps back toward the scene.

"May I help you?" I asked.

Signore Armani lifted his head and gave me a look that seemed to channel the long-ago spirit of a slave trader examining a potential new acquisition.

"Are you good with cars?" he finally returned.

Truth be told, I don't know all that much about cars. I have no trouble refilling fuel, oil and antifreeze; I can clean the battery terminals or change a bulb, and that is about it. Oh, I also know how to break into a car and start the engine without triggering the alarm, but only the older models.

"Do you have a spare?" I asked instead of answering.

"What?" the fashion model wiped his forehead with a silk pocket square. "Do you mean a car?"

"A spare tire," I clarified.

"I don't know," he said.

"Open the trunk and let me see," I suggested.

He seemed to perk up a bit and pressed a button on his key fob. The trunk glided open, revealing a spotless and completely empty space big enough to accommodate a modest single-family home, including the lawn. A lonely paper bag decorated with a bow was enjoying all that splendid real estate.

"I guess there isn't one," the SUV owner muttered.

I lifted the trunk mat which normally conceals additional cargo space, fully expecting to find a crutch or something. Surprisingly, I was met by the sight of a spare tire complete with a rim, brand knew and still bearing the factory marks. It was so thick and heavy that it looked more like a bass drum than a tire. I barely managed to heave it out of the trunk. In a different secret compartment over the fender, I found a jack and a four-way lug wrench. The locking wheel bolts gave me some trouble, but the real head-scratcher was the German carmaker's design of the emergency warning triangle. I somehow managed to set it up some fifty paces up the road and got to work with the jack.

Armani was hovering beside me with a look on his face that said I was performing a magic trick. He was probably wondering what other mysteries were hidden in his luxury vehicle.

The entire change took me about ten minutes. I put the flat "bass drum" where the spare one had been, returned the tools to their original places and cleaned my hands with the wet wipe that the fashion guru, still amazed by my skills, gave me. The wet made me cold and the artificial scent of green apple made me nauseous.

"Here," the face of the Italian fashion world took twenty bucks out of his wallet and offered the bill to me. "Treat yourself."

"No need. It was nothing."

"Come on, take it!" he insisted.

I pinched the bill between two fingers and my thumb left a dark imprint on the front side.

"Thank you for help me!" he smiled, handing me his business card. "God bless you!"

I took it, glanced at the name—Milen Stoyanov—and introduced myself.

"I'm Emil. Nice to meet you."

Milen Stoyanov got in his SUV, made himself comfortable and put the seatbelt on.

"Are you looking for work?" he asked.

His question didn't surprise me at all. I had heard it enough times to know that I probably gave the impression of someone who constantly changed jobs. It was true enough, though it was not my choice.

"Not at the moment, but I soon may be," I said.

"When you make up your mind, you are welcome to Burgas."

There was only a phone number on the business card. No address, no company logo, no title. Just a name and a number.

"How would I find you?" I asked.

"Everyone knows me," Milen Stoyanov smiled in response. "Just ask around."

That sounded simple enough. Hey, asking questions gets you anywhere you want to go, right?

"Thank you, Mr. Stoyanov!"

"No, thank you."

The SUV leapt forward and was out of sight in a second. I turned the smeared bill in my hands and grinned. If I kept getting twenty bucks for ten minutes' work, which made a hundred and twenty an hour, I would be a millionaire in no time. I put the bill and the business card away, threw the wet wipe in the grass and picked up the bag of groceries. I had two more kilometers of walking until I reached the beach and I wanted to join the two guys waiting for me there before it got dark.

***

The vineyard was numb with cold. A more poetic soul would have been tempted to say that it was somber, huddled in its past as if in a cloak of oblivion. But I don't like empty talk or flowery language. Besides, I was freezing without the jacket. A bluish shack was sitting desolate on top of a small hill beyond the last row of vines. After some trudging through the sticky mud I discovered that what had looked like a padlock from afar was actually a piece of thick reinforcement wire with its ends twisted around each other twice to keep the door shut even against strong wind and with prying wild animals around. What made me go into the shack was the hope of finding something warmer to wear. I knew that the place was used mainly in the summer, so I had no illusions about stumbling upon a fur coat inside. But in my situation anything that provided more protection than a tank top would come in handy. I removed the wire and stepped inside. I was quickly turning into a habitual trespasser specializing in wooden structures.

The shack didn't have much to offer – two blankets and a military jacket. It was a camouflage one, to be more specific, and threadbare sergeant's epaulets were still hanging onto the shoulders. The owner of the vineyard was probably a retired army who started this place as an escape from the tedium of civilian everyday life. I was willing to bet that there were also beehives on the slope behind the shack, a classic.

I pictured myself walking around town in the military jacket. Sergeant Milev at your service! Even if I got past the absurdity of this styling choice, someone could recognize the jacket.

It would be easy enough to remove the epaulets, but the idea didn't sit well with me. It wouldn't feel right to damage someone else's clothes if I only intended to borrow and then return them. I took another look around and my eyes were drawn to the scarecrow outside, rocking the denim jacket.

Good idea, buddy. Thanks!

I turned the camo jacket inside out to hide the epaulets and got myself a regular green one that would not make me stand out like a sore thumb on the streets. I looked like an overworked farmhand or a construction worker who wandered away from his site. The jacket was a bit loose on me, but it would at least stop the wind. In any case, I presented an odd picture, but people around these coastal parts were used to odd strangers.

I sat on the rickety bed and laid out my entire personal property on the small pinewood table next to it. The two bills, Milen Stoyanov's business card, a toothbrush, a notebook filled with phone numbers and addresses, a lighter, a safety deposit box key and a pack of chewing gum. I smiled wryly – the pack of chewing gum was the only thing I had left from my last business venture.

### 5.

No matter how unlucky you feel, there's always someone with even worse luck than yours. I had spent the bulk of the past week in the company of two real-deal drifters. They looked way more ragged than me and were drunk most of the time. We met at a diner near the central bus station in Ahtopol. At first, they were reserved, but once they figured out I was one of them, they loosened up and welcomed me. Probably out of pity – I must have seemed even worse off in their eyes. They were younger than me, although you wouldn't know it, alcohol abuse had done its damage and turned them into old men.

The two roamed the beaches along the southern Black Sea coast armed with a beat-up metal detector, hoping to unearth treasures lost by tourists. They must have been doing well because I noticed they had some money. Bulgaria was no Dubai, though, and tourists were not exactly wearing, and losing, valuables on the beach. And so the business of my new friends wasn't all that promising. Every time the metal detector bleeped, the find would turn out to be a beer bottle cap, a piece of rusty wire, or a small coin. I would help them collect the coins and spend them in the local shops. Of the three of us, my appearance was the least offending, so I got to take care of the shopping. What we dug up from the sand wasn't enough for gourmet food, but we didn't starve either. We moved from one beach to another and worked early in the morning or late in the evening to avoid attracting attention.

On the fifth or sixth day since I first joined the duo and just as I was getting ready to leave them, we hit the mother lode. We had barely started to search the beach when we stumbled upon a gold bracelet made up of seven small plates. What can I say, Bulgaria as a whole may not be Dubai but the seaside resort of Lozenets has its own thing going on.

Of course, my two buddies couldn't wait to toast their haul. Their brilliant plan was to sell one or two of the gold plates to the local pawnshop and buy themselves enough liquor to get completely hammered.

I was against it, thought it was a desperate move. I was sure they would get ripped off, not to mention become the subject of unwanted attention. The moment they stepped out of the pawnshop, the broker would make a call. There was no good reason for people like my two partners to own such gold plates, so their stroke of luck would not go unnoticed.

Unfortunately, the two were dizzy with excitement and in no mood to listen to me. They went to the town of Lozenets, sold two of the elements and bought three bottles of wine and some decent food. By the time they came back to the beach, it was already past noon. We started an open fire and prepared a real feast. The other two got right down to draining the wine. After making a quick work of the three bottles, they sent me to town to buy more.

I felt they were trying to get rid of me and that by the time I got back they would be gone, along with the rest of the small treasure. I didn't mind it because they were bound to get me in trouble sooner or later. Even if they didn't leave me behind, I had already made up my mind to go my separate way. So I went and bought two more bottles. I also got a pack of chewing gum for myself. On the way back I came across Milen Stoyanov and his all-white SUV with a flat tire. By the time I got back to the beach, it was dusk.

The other two hadn't taken off without me after all.

No, while I had been in town, my business partners were visited by some thugs, who promptly beat them up and took everything that was worth anything. They smashed the metal detector to pieces and threw the backpacks and the sleeping bags, including mine, into the fire.

That episode speeded things up.

My associates decided to get out of Dodge and try their luck further north, and I opted to stay one more night to make sure we wouldn't run into each other again. In the morning I walked to the side of the road and stuck my thumb out. Noon came and went and I was still standing there. There was no movement in the afternoon either, as the sun was crawling toward the horizon. It was beginning to look like nightfall would find me marking the same spot.

I had hitchhiked all over Bulgaria. I had ridden in thousands of cars, trucks, buses, ambulances and horse carts, on motorcycles as well. And not once had a person from Burgas stopped for me. Meaning, from anywhere in the entire region of Burgas, not just the city. Generally, hitchhiking still worked as a mode of transportation all along the Black Sea, but it was always people from the interior of the country or foreigners who gave me rides. In other words, tourists. The locals simply didn't pick up hitchhikers. That anomaly was a mystery to me. Perhaps Burgas people had some genetic quirk. Or maybe it was the humid climate.

Add to that the fact that in early November the place was not exactly buzzing with tourists, and I had little reason to hope.

I figured it was better to find some place to spend the night before it was dark. So I started down the road, looking around for something that would do. I walked about an hour and a half, maybe two. From a bend in the road rising above the seashore, I spotted the now infamous abandoned beach bar in the waning daylight.

You know the rest.

***

I sighed and went through my personal belongings one more time. All four of the military jacket's pockets were now on the inside. It was going to take me ten seconds tops to fill them with my stuff. Most people don't know the liberating feeling of being able to fit one's entire property in several jacket pockets. I smiled to myself—I had appreciation for my simple, crappy life. But my smile quickly froze as I realized that something was missing among the items on the table. My ID card.

### 6.

The first thing I did was search the shack and check every nook and cranny. Nothing. There was no trace of my ID. I went out and headed for the scarecrow to go through the pockets of the denim jacket. But even before I started trudging through the mud, I knew that there would be nothing to find there. My fears turned out to be justified. It wasn't there. I had lost it—either at the gas station or at the beach bar.

The second option was considerably worse, but it, too, had its nuances. It was conceivable that my ID had fallen into a crack between the floorboards while I was sleeping. That was a far more manageable scenario than the alternative. Which was that I had dropped the card outside, somewhere between the wounded guy and the three dead bodies, and if that was the case...

I felt like running back to the beach just to make sure that my ID wasn't there, or that it was wedged between the floorboards. But the area was teeming with police and was going to stay that way for the rest of the day. At least.

Anyway, if the ID was in the wrong place, the damage had already been done. All I could do was wait. I would just lie low until the dust settled, until the crime scene was protected by nothing but yellow tape, which wasn't much of a barrier. As long as no one saw me hanging around the crime scene, I would be fine.

That was it. I would wait for nightfall before I went back there.

Until then, I could at least check the gas station, have something to eat there. Thinking on an empty stomach is never a good idea.

I was beginning to get tired of crisscrossing the area. I really hoped that at least this latest trip would be worth it and I would find my ID in the restroom—perched on the mirror frame above the sink, left there by some good Samaritan. At the same time, one of my inner voices was nagging me to gather information about the progress of the investigation before I showed up at the gas station. I had no clue how to go about doing it. Another of my inner voices was urging me to stay put for the next three days. To be honest, my most persistent inner voice was whispering in my ear to take the shortest path to the Turkish border.

I ended up listening only to a voice that was advising me to hide the blood-smeared money. I took a piece of chewing gum out of the pack and stuffed in its place the bill, which I had folded in half three times.

***

I stepped out of the rows of vines and onto the paved road and scraped the mud off my shoes—the roadside was sprinkled with pine twigs and one of those did a neat job. With my feet much lighter, I headed north through the raspy morning, back to Izgrev. Over the distance of two kilometers to the town sign, I got passed by about two dozen cars, one of the drivers even waved at me—he either mistook me for someone or just had a habit of waving at strangers. No one eyed me up and down with suspicion and no one stopped me to ask questions or bother me. I got to the town as it was emerging from its rest to start yet another workday in early November and the streets were already buzzing with people. Many of the shops I had earlier taken for closed for the season were actually open. I stopped outside a café and stared through its window at the TV mounted over the bar. The newscast was on, of course, but none of the patrons were paying attention. People in resort towns normally see their fair share of assorted outrages so they are hard to surprise. Even so, a triple murder was quite the event, especially this time of year, the off season.

Those three guys were offed, alright.

I went inside and ordered two servings of the local breakfast specialty—minced meat and yellow cheese on toast. I sat at the bar and took of my jacket because it was warm inside, plus I had broken a sweat walking to town. While I waited for my breakfast to get ready, I kept checking the TV above my head distractedly. The news item I was looking for was surely coming—after all, nothing whets viewers' appetite early in the morning like a story about three corpses and a man in critical condition. I wasn't left disappointed.

It was a brief piece of reporting from the town sign, not even the crime scene.

"This morning the police discovered the dead bodies of three men by a country road running along the seacoast," the female reporter informed feelingly and yet in a solemn, professional tone. "No IDs were found on the bodies, and the individuals are yet to be identified."

She must have been told something over her earpiece because her face went rigid before she continued.

"There are no eyewitnesses, nobody heard or saw anything, which makes for a difficult investigation, says Captain Simeonov."

The camera zoomed out to reveal a uniformed police officer standing next to the reporter. He confirmed her words and presented the theory on which the investigators were working.

"Based on the evidence collected so far, we can conclude that the victims are likely refugees and were killed in a dispute with smugglers," he said.

That statement elicited no response in the café. The customers were drinking their coffee, apparently preoccupied with worries and joys that didn't correspond with the TV channel's programing. But the captain was on a roll and just kept droning on:

"There have been other instances of refugees and smugglers getting into arguments over the cost or the final destination of the smuggling operation."

"Have there been instances of smugglers killing their clients, so to say?" the reporter asked.

"Smugglers have abandoned and even beaten up migrants before, but this is the first time they have resorted to murder."

Then the police officer switched to making sweeping conclusions:

"Smuggling of migrants is intensifying and growing increasingly cruel."

"Does that mean that you expect more killings of this kind?"

"At this stage, we cannot rule out any possibility. After all, we are talking about a lucrative international business," the captain said.

"Still, are regular citizens in danger?"

Man, there really should be some IQ threshold that journalists are required to clear before going on TV. Sometimes their questions are the equivalent of fingernails scratching on a chalkboard.

"Regular citizens are in no imminent danger, but I would still advise them to be on the alert and call the closest police station if they notice something out of the ordinary."

"Thank you Captain Simeonov," the reporter, who had been nodding in understanding, turned to smile to the camera. "Back to the studio."

The program went to a commercial break soon after and I stopped staring at the screen. I couldn't help but notice that some facts were obviously being concealed. There was no mention of the lone survivor. And the claim about the three victims not having IDs... I clearly remembered the passport in the wounded guy's pocket—the eagle, the shield and the doodles in Arabic. But what really took me aback was that I wasn't mentioned either—the schmuck who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I just assumed that everything that was left out of the report was confidential information. The police were unlikely to go around and reveal every single detail of the crime at the start of the investigation.

"He'e ya go. You' t-toasts," the guy behind the counter served me my breakfast and forced a smile. His Eastern Bulgarian twang was in stark contrast with the cultured speech I had just heard on TV. As if that wasn't enough, he stammered and dropped his Rs. A career in public speaking wasn't in his future.

I wasted no time starting on the hot, fragrant toasts. As I was gobbling them up, I tried to imagine what had happened in the hours since my emergency call. After responding to the report and examining the scene of the murders, the local police officers would have been quick to grasp the seriousness of the situation. They would have set up a crime scene perimeter and stayed there to protect its integrity. They would have called in to the station and the desk sergeant would have called for reinforcements immediately. He would have been aware that the police officers in the small coastal town were overmatched in a triple murder case with no sign of the perpetrator. He would have phoned the regional police directorate, which in this case was in Burgas. Shortly after, the report would have reached the main directorate in Sofia.

It would have taken the team on duty at least an hour to come down from Burgas. In the meantime, the wounded guy would have been loaded into the ambulance and transported to the trauma center in Burgas. My guess was the patient was questioned, irrespective of his state, on the way to the hospital or while getting pushed on a stretcher through the entrance. Gathering information in the first couple of hours after a crime is committed is crucial. After that, the human brain starts to rewrite the events into scenarios that progressively deviate from the truth. Traffic officers along the entire southern seacoast would have been told to inspect every vehicle, even though they wouldn't know what to look for beyond suspicious individuals. Unfortunately for them, most people seem suspicious when pulled over by the police, no matter how routine it may be. Just ask me.

Technical personnel would have had to install floodlights training a white glare on the crime scene before the forensics team could start processing the area. I imagined the three lifeless bodies bathed in cold light and shivered. The crime scene photographer would have taken pictures of everything, down to the smallest detail, before it got stomped by dozens of forensic scientists and medical examiners. He would have been followed by the lead CSI on the case, then everyone else. Just an hour later, not a centimeter of the place would have been left unexamined. Every item of evidence relevant to the crime—the victims' belongings, bullets and shell casings—would have been diligently documented with yellow number markers.

They must have found all sorts of things in the dry grass around, mostly remnants of the high season: beer bottle caps, cigarette butts, syringes, condoms, thongs... As physical evidence collected on the crime scene, all of it would have been photographed, catalogued and stored in boxes along with the more obviously meaningful pieces of evidence. The items gathered during the crime scene processing could fill up to four or five cardboard boxes and every single one of them has to then be studied, analyzed and either tied to the crime or eliminated as irrelevant. And that takes weeks.

But if the investigative officers had found my ID, that was a game changer. A real breakthrough. An ID on the crime scene is like the holy grail of evidence. If that had happened, they were definitely looking for me—and not just in the area, but from border to border. That would leave me with no good options. Even if I went to earth, my picture would stay on wanted posters in police stations for months. The first policeman to lay eyes on me would recognize me.

I swallowed the last piece of toast and wiped my fingers clean. A cup of coffee would have been nice at that moment, but I didn't want to linger longer than necessary. I had given people a chance to have a good look at me as it was.

The "pretty boy display", that is what cops call bulletin boards in police stations. It's a simple meter-by-meter corkboard where the images of pretty nasty characters are pinned. No ordinary infraction of the law can earn you that honor. The threshold is premeditated murder.

No, no. I sure didn't need my mug decorating bulletin boards in police stations all over the country. I couldn't see myself using disguises, growing a beard, or playing cat and mouse with the police. If they were searching for me, they would find me. In that scenario, the best thing for me would be to give myself in today, before noon even.

I could only hope that my ID wasn't in the hands of some police officer. I had to get it back before it was too late. Had no time to lose.

I stuffed the change in one of the inside jacket pockets and walked out on the street. Just to be safe, I turned my collar up as if shielding myself from the wind. A black BMW whizzed by, barely missing the stop sign at the crossroads ahead. I thought it looked familiar. Or maybe I was getting paranoid, which was a bad sign.

### 7.

I stepped into the gas station and was surprised to find the pleasant girl from that same morning still behind the counter. Veronica. She tried to communicate something to me with a hand gesture, but I didn't get it, and the two clients at the checkout made it difficult to talk to her unless I was willing to shout over their heads. So I snuck into the restroom instead. Of course, my ID was nowhere to be found. I checked the trash can and behind it – nothing. It wasn't perched on the mirror frame above the sink either. I had to ask Veronica about it, just in case. I walked out of the restroom and headed for the counter. To my surprise, the girl had vanished, replaced by a skinny young man towering over the counter. I looked around but Veronica was nowhere to be seen. Her disappearance struck me as strange, but I had no time to dwell on it. I went up to the young guy and asked him whether he happened to find my wallet.

"Wallet?" he asked, puzzled. "I don't know anything about a wallet. If anyone found one, they didn't tell me. Was there a lot of money in it?"

"Forget about the money," I waved his question off. "My ID was in there. I need it to check into a hotel here in town."

"You staying at Melpomene?"

How should I know, man?! I'm making this up.

I was hoping this kind of lies wouldn't come up when I finally stood at the pearly gates. Otherwise, I was in hot water, even counting this past year alone.

"Sorry," the boy shrugged. "No one left anything, honestly."

"Perhaps your coworker..."

The young cashier shook his head, "She would've told me if..."

Still, I wanted to ask her personally.

"Where is she? She was here a minute ago."

"She went home."

"I see."

Two people popped up behind me, probably trying to pay for gas, so I thanked the boy and moved away from the counter.

Right. So I hadn't lost my ID at the gas station. My odds just got thirty-three percent worse.

Shit!

While I was busy fretting over how crappy the day had turned, one of the two impatient clients got in my face.

"Didn't I see you at the old bridge this morning?" he asked.

I didn't know where that old bridge was or whether this man had seen me there. Most importantly, I couldn't tell if the guy was asking me or thinking out loud.

"It's possible," I said, nodded, just in case. "I walked many hours this morning."

"What brings you here?"

My personal experience was that whenever I tried to explain myself, things usually went wrong. So I did the sensible thing—bit my tongue and schooled my features into a mask of seriousness.

"It's none of your business."

The man looked me up and down and smirked.

"None of my business, you say?"

"That's right"

"Can you show me some form of ID?" he continued.

Either he had overheard my conversation with the cashier or was a mind reader. I must have been looking at him blankly because he repeated the question.

"Can you show me some form of ID?"

I wish I could!

And then I finally noticed the white edging and the embroidered emblem on his jacket sleeve—a lion, a sword and six dreadful letters spelling the word "police". Apparently, police uniforms had a more modern design these days. I took one more step backward and bumped against the other cop. They had me cornered. I threw a hopeless glance at the exit, but the officer behind me shifted a bit to show me he knew what I was thinking. The guy who had come almost nose-to-nose with me also sensed what could happen next and took a step back.

"I'm waiting," he said.

I was studying him, trying to figure out if he just happened to be here and found me looking suspicious or he had been looking for someone with my description.

"Well?"

I shrugged, didn't know what else to do. When you know you're losing the game, there's no point in making the end worse. The officer reached and grabbed my left arm above the elbow, which forced me to spin around. His partner took hold of my right arm and I realized that I was in a more than sticky situation.

In movies, this is usually the point where the suspect is read his rights. In my crappy life, this is the point where I get shoved in the backseat of a police car to the soundtrack of hissed insults and epithets. Occasionally, my head gets bumped against the cruiser—by accident, they'll tell you—during such procedures.

The two officers walked me out of the gas station, their attitude all business, and invited me to get into the cleanest police car I had ever seen. The vehicle looked like it had been bought yesterday. The quieter of the two policemen made a quick work of patting me down, to make sure I wasn't carrying any weapons, before he slammed the door and we drove off.

***

Most law enforcement officers have a strong intuition. Hours into the investigation, they start to get a sense of whether the case will be solved or get stuck in the mud of endless questionings, expert reports and forensic science experiments. In high-profile criminal cases, policemen stop acting like detectives and start thinking like politicians. Conducting a by-the-book investigation is no longer the main priority, replaced by the struggle to show the monster on TV so that the public can breathe a sigh of relief. The problem is that quite often said monster is way too skillful and hard to find. And if he's done his job well—even impossible to find.

So it doesn't take a long time before the police get desperate for anyone who would do as plausible perpetrator. The higher-ups set a psychological deadline of seventy-two hours, and half the time has passed by that point. This is why police officers normally grab the first retard they see, buy him a lollipop and shove it in his hand. The idiot can't believe his luck, meanwhile the cops wait for him to leave his saliva all over the treat before they take it and plant the "evidence" at the crime scene. The idiot starts whining and goes after his prize possession. And wouldn't you know, the talented and perceptive officers happen to be on the spot and detain him because he seems suspicious and cannot explain what he's doing at the crime scene. Then comes a tried-and-tested sequence of events—making an arrest, collecting incontrovertible physical evidence, conducting conclusive DNA tests and finding two witnesses for good measure and, voilà, the idiot is nailed. Photos in the newspapers, praise from senior police officials, politicians can breathe again, the public has had its pound of flesh and can return to normalcy—to watching Turkish soap operas and TV ads that trigger its compulsive buyer habits.

There is always the handful of clear-headed people who will lob a few inconvenient questions, but normally those are shot down by some big name—a former minister of the interior or prosecutor general—who is prepared to appear on national TV and say whatever he is told in exchange for a bottle of whiskey and a whore waiting in his hotel room. The usual spiel is about how the police officers did their job very professionally and violated no procedures during the investigation.

With cases that are particularly difficult or complicated, the police don't even sit around and wait for the idiot to turn up at the crime scene. They drive him somewhere remote and put a bullet through his head. Then it is officially determined that the guy took his life, unable to bear the psychological burden of his own crime. A pretty clean job. Clean and simple like a showered cop, as we used to say in my childhood neighborhood.

Where's the harm in that approach, some would say. What's the big deal, one fewer idiot on this planet? Well, the "idiot" who actually committed the high-profile crime gets away with it. Gets to plan his next move. And these fellas have a very active imagination. Just ask me.

***

In a small town like this the police station couldn't be more than several blocks away, if I had to guess. So I had a short trip to piece together a convincing story. A story that would blend fact and fiction so well that it would deceive even the most perceptive of police officers. Although I doubted there was such a specimen around these parts.

The police station was a small but neat dark gray building. All these police officers were about their business and that was the image that their headquarters was supposed to portray. The building must have been a recent acquisition too because the steel doormat before the entrance showed no sign of corrosion yet.

Most police stations I had had the dubious honor of visiting were permeated with the smell of tobacco smoke, bland coffee, cheap aftershave, mould and rust. And that pretty much covered their redeeming qualities. In contrast, the Izgrev station smelled of cleaning agents, which marked a huge progress.

The local law enforcement officers struck me as modern people. Perhaps they had finally decided to step into the 21st century. I was going to find out soon enough.

But most of all, I had to find out whether they were trying to cast me as the idiot with the lollipop or the guy with the unbearably guilty conscience.

### 8.

Once inside the police station, I was thoroughly searched. Things didn't go as far as the infamous latex-glove examination, but the cops checked all my inside pockets, went through my personal belongings and, having judged that they posed no threat to the national security, returned them to me. Of course, no one thought to open the pack of chewing gum where the blood-stained bill was hidden.

It took the desk sergeant about ten minutes to realize that I had no ID or any intention of volunteering my name, let alone my National Identification Number. No way! Seconds after he entered the figures into the database, he would strike gold.

Many people think that the police have Gestapo powers and can do whatever they want with citizens they bring in for questioning—like eliciting information by force. But that's not true. I wasn't arrested, just detained. I wasn't suspected to have committed any crime. The only wrongdoing I could be held accountable for was not having an ID. But such a minor offense didn't warrant taking my fingerprints or my photo so they can "put me in the database". All they could do was hope I would volunteer my name. By refusing to do so, I was leaving them empty-handed, helpless. They had no way of finding out who I was. Well, strictly speaking, there were ways but they were illegal and the cops knew that. There's an entire segment of attorneys ready to pounce on the opportunity to sew the state for such cases in Strasbourg.

Even better, the local cops couldn't take me into custody because that move would require an arrest warrant and they had no name to issue one for me. All that touring of police stations had thought me a thing or two. Mostly thanks to encounters with people who might have been illiterate but knew how to fight for their rights.

I expected to be shoved into some musty, closet-sized room reeking of stale sweat and urine, where I would get soundly thrashed until I sang like a bird. Instead, I found myself in a nice room with impeccable laminate flooring and brand new furniture, modern desk lamps and all. There was even a picture hung on one wall. Granted, it was a reproduction, but it was colorful and not on the customary hunting or military theme either. It depicted a seaside landscape, probably from the town of Izgrev itself—ominous clouds mushroomed above rocks and a stormy sea. The artwork supported my initial hunch—the Izgrev police was moving with the times.

I was made to sit on a stool in the office of an inspector whose name I didn't even catch. He was in plain clothes and pleasant in appearance. An aura of intelligence clung to his classical features, a rarity among the law enforcement. Admittedly, he looked more like a clerk than the Terminator cop, but even police clerks are not known for being particularly amiable. This particular gentleman gave off the vibe of an edgy clerk, if my people detector was to be trusted. Obviously, someone was breathing down his neck, yet he remained composed. He gave me a businesslike smile and proceeded to insert two sheets of paper into his typewriter. There was a sheet of carbon paper sandwiched between them.

You've got to be kidding me!

So much for stepping into the 21st century!

I decided to stick to my favorite strategy of not divulging anything personal. We could be on first-name basis, but I had no intention of sharing my past.

"Your full name and National Identification Number, please?"

"No"

"Why not?"

His brown eyes pierced right through me. A devious mind lurked behind his seemingly polite façade. Perhaps I needed to be a bit more alert than usual.

"Because I don't want to lie to you."

"Try to tell me the truth, then."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because my truth may be different than yours."

Sheesh, this sounded rather biblical.

"Try all the same."

"No."

If this man wasn't acting and was truly ignorant of my name, then bringing me in for questioning had nothing to do with my ID card. I was hesitant to believe it. I just don't get such breaks. Having a crappy life means you don't get those. But if this was somehow the case..., then I wasn't doomed. The thought breathed extra confidence into my body.

"Why don't you carry any form of ID on you?"

"My backpack and everything in it burned to ashes."

The inspector threw me a superior and even arrogant look, as if he was questioning a naughty child.

"It went up in flames just like that?"

"No. Some thugs threw it into an open fire on the Lozenets beach"

"Why?"

"You'll have to ask them."

"Why didn't you inform the police?"

"I was busy."

"Doing what?"

"Hiding from the thugs."

I had no doubt the inspector was used to dealing with tough nuts to crack. He wasn't sulking, despite being visibly annoyed by my answers. He seemed like a no-nonsense person who knew that sooner or later he would get to the bottom of things, regardless of how stubborn I proved to be. Or maybe he was mostly thinking about how he was five-six hours away from the end of the workday and just had to push through.

"You're not being all that helpful. What is worse, you're not helping yourself."

"I'm used to the hard life."

"What business brings you to town?"

All these local policemen asked the same question as if they had never seen a jobless person wandering around aimlessly before.

"I was headed to your police station."

"Is that so?" the inspector was genuinely perplexed. "Why?"

"To report my ID card getting destroyed by the fire."

The man took off his black suit jacket, then lit up a cigarette and offered me one too. I declined the smoke and he shrugged with indifference. Strangely enough, he had black shirt and tie on underneath the black suit jacket. It was a curious combination, no doubt about it, and that somber look made the name Chernorizec Hrabar pop into my head.

"You probably had no chance to watch TV while you were walking to the station. So I assume you're not aware that we've had some crimes here recently."

"Oh, I know. I just got charged six bucks for two toasts."

"Next time buy a hamburger."

Nice. Really nice.

"Can you give me a detailed account of your whereabouts on the night of seventh of November?"

"What date is it today?"

"Eight"

"So you're asking me about last night?"

"That's right. Where were you and what did you do between eight in the evening yesterday and, let's say, eight in the morning today?"

"I spent the night on a bus stop bench south of town. A sheet-metal shed by the pine forest, you must know it. But I don't have a watch, so I can't be certain about the hours."

"What can you be certain about?"

"That I lay down on the bench when it got dark and got up shortly before the break of dawn."

"Well, I'm certain that you're lying."

"I'm not."

On his desk, the inspector placed a color photo of a car in the aftermath of an accident. The vehicle was photographed at nighttime, illuminated by headlights, the edges of distorted metal glimmering blue and red with the reflection of police and ambulance warning lights.

"Around midnight last night that same place was the scene of a serious car crash. If you had been there, my colleagues would have definitely seen you."

I took another look at the photo. If it really had been taken last night, there would have been shattered glass, pieces of plastic, and oil or antifreeze spots, or whatever liquid the impact of the crash had caused to leak, all over the road this morning. And I didn't remember seeing anything like that. So there was no crash.

"You're playing with me, inspector. There was no accident on that part of the road last night."

"What makes you so sure?"

The car looked as if it had been crushed by a giant vise. To cause this much damage, the collision must have been deafening.

"Because if there had been an accident, the sound of it would have woken me up."

"So what?"

"I would have rushed to help, so your colleagues would have definitely..."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to kick myself.

I, the Samaritan of the year.

The guy always ready to help.

Help victims of car crashes, the injured, people with gunshot wounds, all kinds of poor souls.

He had set the trap and I had walked right into it. At this rate, I might as well go ahead and tell him all about the shooting. The inspector didn't ask me about it, though. He didn't even show that he had caught my slip-up. He was really good at this game. But I noticed that his fingers were trembling as he put the photo away. He gave me a searching look and blew out a stream of smoke. His black shirt had darkened with spots of sweat.

"Let's start over, and no lies this time, OK?"

I nodded.

"What's your name?"

"Emil."

"What business do you have in Izgrev, Emil?"

I cleared my throat, buying time to think my answer through. Sometimes a word was enough to get you out of a mess or completely bury you.

"Gold."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm searching for gold. That is, I was searching for gold."

"Right. And why have you stopped?"

"Had no choice. Our metal detector broke."

The inspector shook his head; it was his turn to clear his throat. He was probably buying time to think his questions through.

"And how much gold did you find?"

"A bracelet. Also heaps of small coins."

"You mean gold coins?"

"No, just change."

"Right. And while you were... searching for gold, did you, by any chance, hear anything about some Arabs?"

Nice try, buddy!

"Arabs?!"

"Yeah."

"Not exactly."

"Meaning?"

"I crossed paths with these two homeless scarabs. But I guess that's not who you're asking about."

That was obviously a shot in the dark. He had nothing on me and was fishing for ways to make me talk.

"How about you drop the clown act, huh?"

That didn't sound tempting. I would have much preferred if he stopped beating around the bush and just spit it out. But I kept my mouth shut and hoped he didn't mistake my silence for arrogance.

"Where did you spend the night? Give me an hour-by-hour account."

"After I left the two guys with the broken metal detector, I spent the day trying to hitchhike but..."

The inspector raised a hand to cut me off.

"Where were you last night?"

"By the pine forest south of town," I answered breathlessly. "There's a bus stop there. A metal shelter with a bench."

"And you didn't go north of Izgrev at all, huh?"

"I really wanted to, but didn't have the chance," I smiled. "Hitchhiking is tough around these parts."

The inspector got out of his chair and walked around the desk to study me up-close. I felt his breath on my cheeks.

"You carry no ID, Emil. I don't even believe that that's your real name. Why should I believe anything you are saying?"

"Because I give you my word that I'm telling the truth."

And I really had told him the truth, mostly. Unfortunately, every suspect in the history of questioning probably swears the same. I doubt that anyone has ever admitted to spinning tales. So police officers are conditioned to assume that every story is a lie—a priori, as the chief of police in Blagoevgrad once put it.

Chernorizec Hrabar, as I started calling the inspector in my head, forced a smile, more of a twitch of his lips, and pointed to the calendar.

"Today is Tuesday. I can keep you in custody for seventy-two hours, which means until Friday afternoon. With a bit of luck, you might even get released as late as Monday morning."

"You can't keep me in here. You have no right."

"Yes, I can."

"On what charges?"

"Assaulting an officer with a cold weapon."

"Did you dream that up?"

"Perhaps I'm clairvoyant," the inspector did another poor imitation of a smile and tapped the calendar with one finger. "As late as Monday."

"Why don't you just let me go now?"

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because I haven't done anything wrong."

"Your idea of wrong may be different from mine."

Nice. Really nice. I liked this guy. Cops with imagination were hard to find.

"I'm going to go and check how much your word is actually worth," the inspector put his suit jacket back on and helped me get up. "I'll see you at the end of the workday. In the meantime, if you decide to talk to me, I'm ready to listen."

***

The "guestroom" of the police station resided in the basement. They took my handcuffs off, pushed me inside and locked the door from the outside. The space felt like an empty garage and was just as dim and cold. There were no windows, restroom, or furniture of any kind, but at least it smelled of bleach, which suggested some level of cleanliness. The set-up reminded me of this particular hotel in Targovishte. I highly doubted room service was an option here, though.

### 9.

I was certain they had locked and bolted every possible exit, but I still had to check for myself—you know, due diligence. I had actually managed to break out once or twice in my time. The door had no locking mechanism, so all I could do was bang on the sheet metal, which I did. The walls were sturdy, the ceiling high. I sat down on the floor and stared at the thin strip of light streaming under the door.

Where had I gone wrong?

Well, duh! Calling the emergency number, of course.

I could have snuck out of the beach bar and went on my way in the dark of night, as if I had heard nothing. The wounded guy would have moaned for two-three hours before he passed on to the Great Beyond. Four dead bodies would have been found a few days later, by which time I would have been in Burgas or Varna, or Vienna, or God knows where, with a new job and a new life.

Yeah, right!

And then for the rest of my days, I would have been haunted by the knowledge that I had left a man to die. Whatever he was—Turk, Portuguese, Arab, Armenian—my conscience was never going to let me abandon him. If I had to do it all over again, I would have made the same choice. I have my principles.

And here I was, already suffering the consequences. Correction, I was beginning to suffer the consequences. I was going to stay there all by my lonesome until Monday. Unless the inspector figured out I was one of the good guys and decided to let me go on my merry way today.

As if someone had read my thoughts, the door suddenly opened and the room was flooded with bright light. But instead of freedom, I was getting company. Two hands shoved someone of small stature into the room, the same treatment I had received earlier. My roommate was just a flash of a silhouette before the door closed as quickly as it had opened, plunging us into darkness again. I slammed my fist on the metal door, then kicked it for good measure. Several times. I liked making my presence known in police stations that way. It made me feel less helpless.

"Easy there, brother," my cellmate said. "Think you the second coming of Ronaldo?"

I turned to face the disembodied voice and the man continued:

"Don't cha worry. Sit down. Take a breather."

I listened to his advice, seeing as there was nothing more I could do.

"Relax, partner! Zorro is a real one. He ain't leaving us in here. We'll be free as birds in the morning."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I know everythin', brother. I grew up here."

"In Izgrev?"

"In the station."

"Who is this Zorro?"

"Whatcha mean, brother? Whatcha mean 'who is Zorro'?"

Maybe he was talking about some Roma chieftain. In my mind, I saw myself freed by some swarthy local Robin Hood driving a black Mercedes 190 Diesel.

"What you got busted for?" my fellow criminal asked.

"Not carrying ID. And you?"

"Being Garo."

"What's wrong with being Garo?"

"Around here, Garo is the first one on their list."

"I see."

The usual suspects—whatever crime was committed, they were the first ones to get checked. Every town has one. Big-city neighborhoods have several. But it was doubtful anyone suspected Garo of having been at the triple-murder crime scene. So why was he in here?

The late-night quarrel by the abandoned bar had nothing to do with a love affair, infidelity, or depriving heirs of their inheritance. At least that was my impression from what my sleep-muddled brain had managed to register. All the signs pointed to a dispute over money. And considering that the quarrel ended up costing people their lives, the money must have been a lot and acquired through not-so-legal operations. We are used to calling the people involved in not-so-legal operations "the underworld".

A small-town triple murder of figures from the underworld is normally just the beginning of a long and motley string of shootings. The first thing that the police do is put everyone with criminal record behind bars until their pulse settles a bit. And that really includes everyone – from car thieves to pickpockets and people like me and Garo, just in case.

What was the thriving underground business around these parts? Especially in the winter?

Let's see.

Captain Simeonov had mentioned it in that TV interview—smuggling of refugees.

But if the four miserable souls strewn across the sand dunes last night were refugees, why were they shot like animals? Was it about settling a score? Unpaid debt? I might not have personal experience in the business of smuggling people, but I know that everything is paid in advance there. You pay up and they get you across the border. You pay up and they give you food and water. There was no way these guys got shot because they didn't pay what was asked. If they hadn't coughed up the money, they wouldn't have been on this side of the border.

Once smuggled into Bulgarian territory, refugees become unwanted burden and the smugglers try to get rid of them as soon as possible—like dropping them off in downtown Burgas and leaving them to fend for themselves. They don't shoot them. Shot refugees are bad for business—this kind of thing breeds mistrust among foreign partners and puts everyone involved at risk. If shady deals are done in silence, refugee smuggling is carried out in complete silence and information vacuum. No smuggler, even the dumbest one, would shoot at his clients, as the TV reporter referred to them. And the guy who rattled off all those shots last night was anything but the dumbest smuggler. The finger that pulled the trigger belonged to a trained killer.

One thing was for sure, though, last night's linguistically confusing quarrel concerned money.

Actually, it was possible that someone had been trying to buy his way out of a hairy situation. Maybe that someone had been offering money in exchange for his life after finally realizing he had made a mistake. The realization had come all too late, judging by the outcome of the business negotiations.

Whatever. There was no way of knowing that now.

"Garo?"

"Yes?"

"How do you make a living?"

"Scrap metal, collect it."

"You're not stealing, then?"

"Whoa there! Garo's no thief now."

"But you've been taken into custody before, right?"

"Well, sure, brother!"

"What for?"

"Just told you. Stuff happens, they come after Garo."

My eyes had adjusted to the darkness that engulfed us and I could see his silhouette now. He was short, with curly hair; that was about all I could make out of his shape. But I could smell him and it was the unmistakable smell of someone who hadn't taken a shower in at least ten days. Maybe ten years. That reminded me I hadn't showered in a couple of days either, so perhaps he could catch the same kind of stench coming from me.

All those friendships I had stricken up in police stations over the years had brought me nothing but headache. I wasn't about to get chummy with Garo. But the fact that he was a regular here might have taught him a trick or two.

"Have you been cuffed many times?"

"Phew!"

"They throw you in this room every time?"

"It's the only one they use."

"And what if you have to pee?"

"You hold it."

"What?"

"Heard me right. You sit tight and hold. Or you gonna find out they like a good beating here."

I should've taken care of that business this morning in the vineyard—number one and number two. The toasts had seemed pricy to me and now I knew why—the mince must have been vintage. It was already doing damage to my gut.

"What's your name," Garo asked.

"Emil."

"And what's the name on your ID?"

"Emil."

"Nah."

"What do you think it is?"

"Dunno. But it's always something different."

"Why?"

"I'm supposed to be Garo, right? Says 'Gavrail' on my ID. Gavrail Gavrailov."

"Mm-hmm. Well, I'm Emil, ID or no ID."

Garo smacked his lips and laughed:

"It's not 'bout the ID. You fibbin'."

"What?"

"They didn' put you in here for not carrying ID."

"What for, then?"

"You got rap sheet."

"You've got this all wrong, Garo. It's just that someone took my bag and my ID with it."

"I ain't wrong. I got a good intonation about these things. You got into a muddle."

My thoughts returned to the adventures of the night before. The whole thing still seemed like accounts being settled between business partners. Actual bank accounts were probably affected—money, debts, loans, payments, interest rates... those kinds of things.

People watching too much TV think that in such arguments the bad guys ace the debtor for not returning the money in time.

That's not exactly true.

The guy who borrows money is usually kept alive because he is a valuable source of funds. He is the goose that laid the golden eggs. Even if he is unable to pay the principal on the loan back, the interest rate payments are consolation enough for the creditor. The poor looser is set up to pour money into that hole for the rest of his life. That is why organized crime groups have an interest in keeping the borrower alive. So no firing shots at him. In this line of business, bullets are usually reserved for creditors. With all due respect to Captain Simeonov, there were a lot of holes in his statement. I wasn't ready to believe him. It was too neat and quick of an explanation to be true.

In a nutshell, the police didn't really have a clear idea of what was going on either. Otherwise, they wouldn't have brought both Garo and me to the station. They had put us behind bars just in case, they didn't really know anything. Which meant that my ID card was still somewhere in the rickety beach bar, the investigators had missed it.

There would definitely be no officers guarding the site tonight. There wouldn't be anything left to guard. All the crime scene processing and evidence collection would have been done by then. The law enforcement was chronically undermanned anyway. If the local police management had no clarity on the case but was still worried, it would need all the uniformed officers it could get and need them in town, not somewhere in the sand dunes, protecting a crime scene that had already been processed, photographed, documented and searched several times.

Even after searching the crime scene several times, the police hadn't found my ID. Yet. I could picture it nestled between the floorboards in that abandoned beach bar. Meanwhile, I was sitting on the floor of the police station basement, fighting the urge to pee.

I had to get out. Preferably before Zorro, Robin Hood, or Baron Munchausen came to free me.

"You wanna get out, huh?" Garo seemed to be reading my mind. "You wanna be goin' back out there?"

"Maybe I do."

Escaping the holding cell was not that serious of a wrongdoing. I had done it before. Worst-case scenario, I would get caught and thrown back in it. Garo, however, got excited.

"You should run away. Got no business in the lock-up with some gipsy like me."

"I can wait until tomorrow."

"You got any idea how much beating you gonna get by then?"

"From whom?"

"The night shift."

"Why would I get a beating?"

"Biodiversity. Told you I been here before."

"Is there a way I can get out of here?"

"Sure is. But I'm warning you—Zorro be pissed."

I didn't give a damn about that.

"If you show me how to escape, I'll tell you a way to get rich."

That offer was met with silence. My cellmate probably knew a few tricks after all.

"Get rich?"

"Yup, and do it easy too."

"How rich we talkin'?"

I had a flash of inspiration.

"Zorro-level rich."

"Bah, you lyin' through yo' teeth, brother. All gypsy-like."

"I give you my word."

Garo was either more trusting than the inspector who questioned me or more kindhearted because he decided that my word was worth something and clapped his hands.

"OK, but you goin' alone, I'm stayin' here."

"Deal, just give me the intel. How do I get out?"

"Through the door, brother."

"What do you mean through the door? It's locked!"

"I be unlockin' it for you right quick."

My cellmate got up and started fussing with the metal door. In half a minute, it came ajar with a creak. In another second, I was at the threshold. Garo squeezed my shoulder.

"If you go right, you'll be getting' upstairs to the desk sergeant. Left, you'll be finding yourself in the yard."

"Listen, Garo..." I hoped he would like my piece of business wisdom. "There's a gadget called metal detector."

"And?"

"You use it to locate metal. You just walk around with it and it makes a bleeping sound whenever there's some piece of metal buried in the ground nearby."

"And?"

The door opened slightly wider and I could see his weary face a bit better. He was at least ten years older than me. But his eyes danced with youthful enthusiasm.

"Used ones go for two hundred bucks. Get one."

"What for?"

"To get rich."

"It don't work, brother. I've tried."

"Yeah?"

"Yup. It don't work. Gimme somethin' else."

"The other day I found a gold bracelet with one of these machines."

"That why you got busted?"

"No."

Garo turned sad and patted me on the shoulder.

"Took you for a smart man, brother."

"What?"

"Go, said you were in a hurry."

### 10.

I had no desire to have another face-to-face with the desk sergeant, so I chose left and got to the yard. Most people associate the word "yard" with green grass, trees and flowers. The yards I'd been to in the past couple of years were paved and served as parking lots. This one was no exception. Two patrol cars and three civilian vehicles were parked here. I suddenly felt like jumping into one of the cruisers, starting the engine, gunning it and running through all the checkpoints and barricades, with the sirens blaring. But that impulse quickly left me. The last thing I needed was to draw attention.

I crept forward and peeked around the corner of the building. Metal fencing separated the yard from the street, with an old gatekeeper stationed there. He was wearing a camouflage jacket.

I turned my jacket right side out again. Now I had camouflage on too, complete with sergeant's epaulets. That ought to be enough. I finger-combed my hair and shoved my hands in my pockets.

"Hey, mate!" I called to the gatekeeper as I went over. "Would you open the door for me? I'm waiting for a delivery of two filing cabinets from Burgas."

He gave me the once-over.

"I haven't been informed of this."

"It must be an oversight. You know how hectic it's been all morning..."

The gatekeeper took another good look at me. He really didn't trust me, I could see it.

"Let me make a call."

"Don't do that, you'll ruin the surprise."

"What surprise?"

"The file cabinets are for the desk sergeant."

"OK. But I still have to..."

Right then, some frustrated driver blasted his horn on the street outside. It was perfect timing for me.

"Open the gate, mate, or I'll miss the delivery truck and then I'll take flak for it."

He hesitated, but eventually pulled out a small remote control and pushed a button. The gate slid open and cleared my path to freedom. I stepped out of the gate, onto the street, and looked around.

"See where they've gone now?" I continued to fret, just to be on the safe side. "I'll go get them."

I started a brisk pace down the sidewalk. My hope was that after two or three minutes of waiting in vain the gatekeeper would close the gate and forget about me for a while. I took the first possible intersection and put the jacket on with the camouflage on the inside again. My plan was simple—go to the beach and then trek through the sand and rocks to the now infamous bar. Then wait at a safe distance for the night to fall, get close and break into the crime scene. Find my ID, retrieve it and get out of there. Then keep to the coastline as long as I can. I doubted the police would have scouts along the beach.

***

The sea is very different in wintertime. It still has its salty beauty, but it is a harsh and brutal kind of beauty. As a kid, I used to think that ships got wrecked and sank only during the winter months. Now I know better, but in my mind the winter sea continues to be the very antithesis of joy, laughter, happiness and life.

It might have been autumn on the beach, but a mixture of winter, loneliness and death emanated from the glowering, gray sea, its surface ruffled by the wind. I hadn't been to the north beach of Izgrev in a long time, so I was caught off guard by the sight of it. I had expected to find, as everywhere else, the relentless march of construction creeping toward the sea. Guess developers would build hotels offshore if they had the technology, whether that was legal or not. Like, all the way out to the buoys. Apparently, Izgrev was not that appetizing because the beach was stretching undisturbed by redundant concrete buildings. My feet sank into the sand and I felt free again.

There were several abandoned beach bars here as well. One of them was offering—or, more correctly, had offered in the summer—a fenced garden with an outhouse. This arrangement was about to come in handy for me considering how insistently nature was calling. I walked through the rickety gate in the wooden fence, hung my jacket on the cane-reed roof of the bar, and got down to business.

***

I doubted that the bar was equipped with a security alarm system. It was much more likely that someone had seen me sneaking inside and questioned my good intentions, then made a call—but not to the police. In small towns some stuff are solved away from the watchful eye of the law.

The feeling that you have lived through the present situation before is pretty common. With me it was the opposite. I had truly gone through some experiences, mostly unpleasant ones, more than once. And not in a single one of those did I have déjà vu. That overwhelming sense of familiarity didn't hit me now either. The beefy guy from the gas station and his buddy with the perpetually moved look on his face were waiting for me about twenty meters outside the bar. I could see their black BMW parked way in the distance, where the beach gave way to a paved road that cut into a poplar forest.

First I had heard an engine being revved up, then two car doors getting slammed shut. I had just finished relieving myself and was reaching for my jacket when that happened. I went to have a look outside and froze in my tracks.

Beeby. That's what the cashier girl had called him when the big fella was about to smash my face in. Well, there was no one to stop him now, so he was probably getting ready to finish what he'd started this morning.

"Sup, Evander Holyfield!" Beeby hollered at me, making his henchman smirked. "How's it going?"

I had never liked the expression "to kick someone's ass". But at that moment I really wanted to kick their asses. Kick them until I lost feeling in my feet. The problem was those two weighed twice as me. Each of them.

"If you've come to steal, you're late."

I wasn't in the mood to explain myself, so I simply waited to see where they were going with this.

"You know what we do to thieves around here?"

"What?" The thug with the raised eyebrow asked the question for me.

"We beat they ass, then fuck they ass."

They both burst out laughing. Mr. Clean started walking toward me, but stopped halfway—probably just to make me sweat more. I looked at the towering poplars, dark-green tufts of mistletoe perched on their bare branches. Maybe if I made a run for it, I could gain a small lead on them. But there was nowhere to hide, no way to lose the brawny duo. Besides, I was surrounded by sand—more conducive to a silly game of tag than an actual escape strategy. I needed a Plan B.

The fence pickets were nailed in place. The garden had obviously been neglected even during the high season because many of the pickets had come loose and disarranged. One had tilted perpendicular to the rest, a nail sticking out of its loose end. It would take half a second to pull that picket out and swing it at Beeby's bald, shiny head. With the pointy end of the nail first. I was waiting for him to come close enough. Those things were better done suddenly.

The thug took several more steps and stopped again. He pointed behind him with his thumb and sneered:

"I'll let Angel work on you first, get your juices flowing."

"Have you told him you're a faggot?"

Some people have a big ego and take insults extremely personally. The bald-headed thug strode purposefully toward me, his eyes throwing daggers, his jaw clenched.

"You're an absolute goner, buddy."

The picket maneuver worked like a charm. I grabbed and pulled the piece of wood and it came out with a creak. I swung it as hard as I could and it made contact with the thug's head with a really pleasant crack. My hand went numb from the reverberations of the impact, and I thought I had surely scrambled whatever small brain my opponent sported.

But apparently I had underestimated how thick Beeby's head was. That wasn't his weakest spot after all. The picket broke in two and the nail left an angry mark but my weapon failed to make significant damage or affect his momentum. And I was no longer armed. The last thing I saw was a meaty fist flying toward my face.

### 11.

I could only imagine how long the thug's head had continued to ring after its meeting with my makeshift weapon. But I knew mine had the bells of Notre Dame clanging inside it and was threatening to resonate with the sound until Christmas. The pain hit me first, then my memory came back in stages. I recalled that my name was Emil and I was headed to Burgas after some small-fish thugs had burned my backpack. Then I remembered that I had fallen asleep in an abandoned beach bar and gotten woken up by voices quarreling and gunshots. Then all the memories of the past few hours came rushing back, mixed with zaps of shooting pain. And eerie lights dancing around me, giving me vertigo. I closed my eyes to keep myself from going out again.

"Morning, Sugar Ray!" the voice was about as pleasant as fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. "Did you sleep well?"

The now familiar cackle followed. It was growing on me. A muscular hand shook me, which seemed to remind my headache that it had another gear.

"Get up, you have visitors."

The lights worked their magic at regular intervals, making my head spin. The pulsing pain was a more inconsistent contributor to my dizziness. The air was filled with an unidentifiable stench. My grandmother liked to use the expression "smells of dead swans". I had never come across dead swans but they must stink, more or less, like what I was detecting at that moment.

I ignored the swole idiot's instruction, had no intention of getting up, didn't want to go anywhere. I gingerly opened my eyes and couldn't believe what they saw: the thugs had their feet on the ceiling and were hanging upside down. I must have been gawking at them because they both laughed. That had to be some local, Burgas trick.

Then they were joined by a third guy, who looked even beefier. Did they start them on free steroids from elementary school around these parts? This one was walking on the ceiling too. I had no clue how they were doing that, but they definitely had that trick down pat. The newcomer stepped out in front of his buddies and scrutinized me. The other two had stopped laughing. I noticed a Band-Aid on Beeby's head.

Someone must have turned on the lighting because my eyes were suddenly assaulted by bright light. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that everyone in the room would get back to obeying gravity—or even better, be gone—when I opened them again. It didn't work.

"So," the new guy started. "What are you doing in my town?"

My town?

I had heard that line before—mostly from chiefs of police, prosecutors, judges... and even one mayor. But this guy looked nothing like a mayor or a police officer, so I figured he was the literal owner of most of the town.

My hands were tied up behind my back. My legs were starting to go numb. I tried to move them and couldn't. And no wonder—they were spread and separately tied with clanking chains.

Shit!

It finally dawned on me that I was the one hanging upside down and not the others.

Bastards!

They had me suspended by chains from the ceiling! I was hanging there like freshly killed big game. It was a high ceiling, topping a cylindrical, pretty narrow space, the size of a regular room. The bulk of the three gangsters squeezed most of the air out of the room. And what was left of it was permeated with the salty, pungent smell of dead swans.

A narrow staircase was winding up the wall. It was kind of bizarre, like taken out of one of those Escher paintings where flights of stairs flow into one another and the people walking them are simultaneously ascending and descending and up is down. Even upside down, I could tell the man before me was pensive, serious. There was no point in boring him with the long story, so I decided to get right to the point.

"I'm trying to leave it."

"What did you come for?"

"I was just passing through when my luck failed me."

They had removed my shoes. The scumbags had left me with only my socks on. The big toe on my right foot was poking out of a hole, but as annoying as that was it also seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

"Where did you come from?"

"The Lozenets beach."

"And what business did you have there?"

"We were searching the sand for valuables until some morons smashed our equipment and burned our stuff."

The way the tendons in Beeby's neck strained told me he had something to do with that job.

"Did you say we?"

"There were three of us. The other two left."

"And you staid?"

"Had trouble hitchhiking."

The new guy kept piercing me with his pale eyes. There was no sign of humanity in those.

At least he was dressed like a civilized human being—turtleneck shirt and khaki pants. The two fellas behind him had the style of Decathlon fanatics shopping only at discount prices.

"You told my boys a different story. Why?"

"Because they are a more primitive audience."

Thank God that that big word went over Beeby's head, or he might have popped a tendon. I was willing to bet that the fanciest words in his vocabulary were biceps and triceps.

Come to think of it, those would make excellent nicknames for him and his friend with the perpetually moved expression—Biceps and Triceps. What a devastating combo! Like Max and Moritz or peas and carrots...

"And why are you still hanging around in my town?"

"You're not letting me leave."

Now there was a sign that all the blood in my extremities had pooled in my head. The command center was obviously not functioning properly.

"Would you put me down, please? I have high blood pressure."

The beefy guy checked his watch, pulled a piece of gum out of his pocket and started munching. It probably contained steroids.

"Why is a numbskull like you loafing in Izgrev?"

"I'm asking myself the same question."

He caught my drift.

"Are you clowning me?"

"It's the high blood pressure talking. Put me down and I'll be fine."

He reached and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

"You're a smartass, huh?"

"It's better than being just an ass."

"You're getting on my nerves."

"Untie me. I'm feeling nauseous."

The town owner motioned something to the thugs and Biceps lowered me to the ground. He let me lie down, but left the chains on my legs. The three men finally stood before me in the proper alignment of human body parts from top to toe. The entire room made sense now. Except for the staircase, which continued to look like something out of an Escher painting.

"Any more nonsense and I'll let you hang here until you turn into dried mackerel. You got that?"

I nodded before I could blurt out something I would regret until I turned to dried mackerel.

"Last night some dimwit made a shitload of a mess. This just doesn't happen in my town. And when it does, I get to the dimwit very quickly. Then he disappears like he never even existed. The world has an excess of dimwits anyway."

At least on that we agreed, so I simply nodded again. I was slowly getting sensation in my legs back.

"You're hiding something and I'll find out what it is. I always do. I also don't like wasting time because my time is precious. Extremely precious. So start singing right now."

"I have no idea what you want from me. I wasn't in town last night. I slept on a bench. There's a metal bus stop south of town, near a forest. I haven't stolen anything."

The steroid king fixed me with a probing stare once again.

"Why don't you have any baggage?"

"Because the morons I told you about burned my backpack on the Lozenets beach."

Biceps was dying to kick me. The feeling was mutual.

"Do you know someone in town?"

"No."

"When was the last time you were in Izgrev?"

"Around noon today."

"And before that?"

"This morning."

"And before that?"

"On twelfth of July 2014. It was Friday. I remember because..."

"Shut up!"

I did.

"What's your name?"

"Emil."

"Emil who?"

"Emil who is about to leave."

"Your last name!"

"It's not that important."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."

I always look for the good in people.

During our verbal sparring match with mister steroid, I was trying to figure him out. It occurred to me that he could well be the mayor of Izgrev. Those in power were really getting a kick out of pushing for ambitious and less than literate young men to get elected as mayors of small towns these days. The establishment fancied that same type for positions at the helm of municipal companies, state agencies and all sorts of public committees. They looked good on TV and inspired more confidence in voters than the sleek communist old-timers. They were also easier to control, at least until they felt self-assured enough to go solo.

I tried to imagine the guy in front of me occupying a public office and really caring about his town. And leading a double life because of it—he would prepare reports, help old ladies cross the street and give polite interviews during the day, but then put on the Captain Black Sea vigilante costume at night to fight the scum of society.

If he was savvy enough, he would know he couldn't do much against people like me with legal means. But outside the law, under the cover of night, he could do whatever he wanted, as long as he had supporters among the local police and underworld. And one didn't have to search long and hard for people ready to get behind the pure and sacred republic idea.

"I think you were there."

"Where?"

"In the wrong place at the wrong time."

For a second I thought this guy might be a mind-reader. Like he had developed this talent as a side effect of the steroids and the whey protein. The moment my imagination went there, the guy sprung a halo, a whey halo in my mind. I didn't know his name, but if I lived in Izgrev, I would definitely call him Whey.

Whey checked out the hole in my right sock and his eyes focused tight on me.

"A murder was committed near here last night. Do you have anything to do with it?"

"Yes, I did them in. I started with a hammer, switched to a knife and finished with an ax. The weapons are still in my pockets."

"Shut up!"

I closed my mouth mostly because of my blunder. I hoped to hell he hadn't caught that telltale "them". He hadn't mentioned the number of dead bodies left behind by the murderer. Theoretically, I could have learned about it from TV or radio broadcasts, but it was still beyond dumb of me to let that slip. It wasn't much of a bait and I still took it. Do you know why? Because I have a bad habit of acting cocky and dismissive at exactly the wrong time—and I end up underestimating the person on the other side of the conversation. And that is a mistake, even when that person is a thug. Whey gave me a long look, and even though nothing in his expression suggested that he had noticed my lapse, I sensed something flicker deep in his eyes. But he was obviously in much better control of his reactions, so he just nodded and continued with his questions.

"Did you see who shot the Arabs?"

Who shot the Arabs?! Ha! Are you freakin' kidding me, man? Unreal!

"Everyone knows that."

My interrogator stopped chewing and goggled at me. He was looking at me as if I was about to hand him the password to the Kardashian family's every last bank account.

"What does everyone know exactly?"

"The Israelis are the ones shooting Arabs."

As I was recovering from the kick in the ribs that that joke got me, I meditated on the possibility that the strapping young man could be the local modern feudal lord, who disliked his town attracting unwanted attention because of local crime making the news. That would especially make sense if he, like all modern feudal lords on the Black Sea coast, ran shady operations. Shady things are done in the dark so it would only make sense for him to try and keep the town out of the spotlight.

He was a bit young for this profile, but if he had gotten his start at twelve...

Modern feudal lords have this reputation of demonic, wicked creatures that capture an entire city and suck its lifeblood dry. I would argue with that image. For one, these local rulers are normally intelligent. It also takes courage to do all the stuff they do. Not everyone has the stomach for it.

Plus, they aren't the ones who weaken local governments from within through bribes and influence. Local governments, playing the role of a bitch in heat season, are desperate for their attention, i.e. bribes and influence. Local governments devise the schemes and cast the actors. A feudal lord is usually a tough guy who has the balls to fight for his money, which he then has to split with all the parasites along the food chain, going all the way up to ministers.

This sounds like an exaggeration to you?

Years ago, I talked to a policewoman about this. She explained that with modern technology it would take the police a half hour to apprehend and build a solid case against all those criminals standing behind phone scams, car thefts, burglaries, street prostitution, drug dealing, etc. A half hour! They could bust them all, including the officers and the rank and file of each of those foul industries. But these industries make millions and millions of bucks every year, with a big chunk of the money going to the police. Who is stupid enough to catch the goose that laid the golden eggs and kill it?

There was this drug dealer one time. In his intoxication, he was blabbering about how the areas where drugs were being sold and those ran by pimps perfectly matched the police precincts—facts. You don't imagine that some self-made circus artist who used to live out in the sticks, no matter how ballsy or savvy he is, could really sit all by himself atop any big business, do you?

Not saying that feudal lords are saints or anything. No matter what they do, they will always be criminals. And yet, in a way, they are more honest than politicians, who plant trees and cut the ribbon of new sports arenas for the cameras, but their only actual concern is how to steal another million bucks of public money, no matter what malfeasance it takes. So if a feudal lord is well-entrenched, know that he has achieved this standing not simply thanks to the local politicians' assistance or inaction but at their express wish, whim and command.

I went on a little rant there.

The air in the narrow, high-ceilinged room had grown quite stifling—maybe that had induced my heated moment.

"Listen, dimwit," the beefy guy spit his gum out and clenched his jaw. "You're wasting my time. If you've got something to say, say it. If not, beat it."

"I gave you everything I had. I can sit here and make up bullshit until the sun comes down, but I value your time and..."

"I know you were there," Whey cut me off. "I can feel it. But you don't seem like a killer material to me. It takes balls to take someone's life and you are a wimp."

It wasn't the time or the place to argue that last point, so I kept my mouth shut. But he wasn't done yet:

"I'll be damned if you didn't see what happened, though. And you're going to tell me right now."

I was silent, trying to count in my head to keep from blurting out something that would put the dried mackerel project on the fast track.

"Or you're not getting out of here," Biceps chimed in. "Are you going to spill the beans?"

"What I'm going to spill is your brains if I find out you've laid a hand on Veronica again."

Biceps and Triceps looked at each other, then exchanged looks with their boss and the three of them burst out laughing.

The owner of the town threw me a glance as if seeing me for the last time and gave Biceps and Triceps some kind of hand signal. This time I didn't lose consciousness until the third blow.

### 12.

Have you ever dreamed that you are drowning? Or falling into an abyss? Or struggling to breathe?

My ears were buzzing. Something was generating a deafening noise around my head. I was straining to draw air into my lungs. I opened my mouth instinctively and salt water rushed into it. I choked and went to spit it out, but that only made my mouth fill with more and more water. My ears were now roaring. I tried to lift—or was it lower—my head just so I could change something, but I didn't have the strength to move. It took me a second to realize that I was drowning. The feeling of helplessness was paralyzing. This time I was finished and fighting the inevitable was only going to drag out the agony.

So that was what dying looked like.

I tried to hold my breath as long as possible, but the only thing I held was the water in my mouth. I had swallowed enough of it to make me nauseous. My stomach was churning, but that or any other sensation had nothing on the panic in my head. I desperately wanted all of it to be a dream, to wake up from it. Or to somehow pop out of the water like a cork on a champagne bottle.

There had to be a way out!

Something tugged sharply at my legs and my face suddenly felt cold. I felt rivulets of water streaming down my throat, forehead and ears and I took in the fact that I was hanging upside down again, only this time in the sea. Well, they had just pulled me out.

Even though it was dark, I could make out rusty metal pillars gently stroked by the quiet waves of the icy sea. I was on a pier or something like that. My entire head, not just my face, was chilled. Giggling was coming from somewhere way above my feet.

Right.

The thugs were having fun with the task of drowning me.

In the next moment I felt weightless, then got dunked into the sea again. A cloud of bubbles swirling around my head, I pressed my lips to stop water from getting into my mouth. But I couldn't pinch my nose or cover my ears, so water had no problem finding its way in.

As it turned out, the thugs didn't want to drown me, just teach me some respect, because after the fourth dip they pulled me up onto the pier. They dropped me onto the wooden boards and patiently waited for me to hack and spit all of the vileness stuck to the inside of my mouth. I tried to make myself throw up, but couldn't even muster a decent spit. That horrendous taste was going to linger for a while.

Biceps leaned over me and pressed his forehead to mine.

"Don't yank my chain ever again."

That boy sure had an ego problem. I felt compelled to tell him that in a way he would understand. I breathed in and started enunciating as clearly as the situation permitted.

"My man, penis enlargement surgeries are not that expensive these days."

Biceps blinked a couple of times over the span of seven inhalations, then let out a roar, picked me up and threw me back into the sea.

***

When I came to, the Michelin brothers were nowhere to be seen. That eerie intermittent light kept flashing every six seconds. It had gotten completely dark and all the thugs were gone. What was very much present and raging was my splitting headache. I sat down and my head automatically drooped. I felt my face and didn't find anything concerning. No split lip, no swollen nose, no closed eye or missing teeth. There weren't even traces of dried blood. The bastards had managed to beat me up without drawing blood. That skill takes a long time to master. From everything I had seen of those guys, intimidation was likely how they made their living. I was beginning to realize how dumb it had been of me to front so much on them. People in their line of work didn't have much of a sense of humor.

What I didn't get was why they had left me alone. Clearly, they had gotten tired of torturing me and gone on their way, leaving me behind. Either something more important had come up or they had decided that I was a waste of time and muscular activity.

I got up and promptly staggered. It wasn't all that bad, though. I was somewhat surprised I could stand on my feet at all. I would have thought my shoes would be gone, but there they were, still in place. And, what do you know—tied. Thanks!

It was not only darker, but colder than before. My hair was damp and my mouth was filled with a vile salty taste from my involuntary plunge into deeper layers of the sea. My woolen checked shirt was soaked through and I had nothing else to wear. The camouflage jacket, along with the few personal items I had, was still hanging on that cane-reed roof where I had my altercation with Biceps. I had to get it back. But first things first—I had to figure out where I was.

The sound of waves crashing was coming in billows from somewhere close, as if I was on the seashore again. My body shivered with cold and disgust. I gave walking a try. Light gleamed evenly on my surroundings, illuminating the rocks beneath my feet. Then a light bulb went off in my head.

Light, get it?

A lighthouse.

It was a damn lighthouse!

The thugs had kept me in some ancient lighthouse!

I couldn't believe it!

The last time something like this happened must have been in a Jean Marais movie. In the era of black-and-white motion pictures. In all my run-ins with thugs, the thing that had bothered me most about their type was the lack of imagination. Copycats whose insight into the morals of organized crime groups came strictly from cheesy Hollywood oldies. Morons! These last ones were no exception. I didn't take a good look at them, but I was willing to bet that at least the pale-eyed guy with the turtleneck shirt and khaki pants wore a golden ring on his right pinkie. Imbeciles!

Even I would have given them better fashion advice.

The darkness had thickened, indicating that it was deeper into the night. Unless I had been unconscious for hours and it was nearly morning. I walked away from the lighthouse and the shore and my feet touched paved road. Here the surf sounded more muted and the wind was less biting. Dried leaves were raining softly down on me from trees towering over my head. Nothing around me provided clues that would point me in the direction of Izgrev, Burgas, or escape.

I was sour and salty at the same time, thirsty and haggard, and my cloths felt both dry and drenched.

Things were going from bad to worse.

The moment we found that golden bracelet on the beach things had gone sideways. It was as if I had gotten caught in a mudslide and it was taking me straight to a deep morass. I was going down a slippery slope and there was no force on earth that could stop my inevitable slide into ruin. A sense of doom was in the air. And to think that I hadn't even touched the bracelet! I could only imagine what had happened to the two hobos who found it, broke it up and partially sold it.

I started a slow march down the paved road.

I had to figure out where I was.

If I kept to the shore, leaving the Black Sea always to my right, I was going to travel north. It was a scientific fact. So sooner or later I was going to reach Burgas. But I needed to know my starting point. The lighthouse could be anywhere on the southern coast.

I went into the forest where the light from the lighthouse couldn't penetrate the wall of trees. I was walking almost blindly. I wasn't going to be able to keep moving for much longer. The fellas had done a good job of weakening me and I was already running low on energy. I felt stabbing pain in my ribs, back and abdomen with every step I took, my stomach was racked by spasms and my head was pounding. I knew I had nothing broken, but I also didn't have enough strength to run or fight stray dogs, if it came to that.

Was the police looking for me?

If they had wanted to pin last night's murders on me, they wouldn't have let me out of their sight. If I had been targeted as the scapegoat, they wouldn't have left me in the company of the shower-averse Garo. They would have more likely put me in a gilded cage under constant video surveillance.

Instead, I was able to escape, easily. They hadn't even placed an officer outside the holding cell, which would have been the prudent thing to do.

So they didn't really care about me. This particular direction of the investigation must have seemed like a dead end to them. I was no longer a person of interest to them. Perhaps my escape had even saved them some tedious paperwork. I doubted they would go looking for me. Which was fine by me. Rather puzzling as well.

If I were still a smoker, I wouldn't mind a cigarette right about now, might have helped me come up with some logical answers. But I had given up smoking many years ago. About the same time I gave up trying to find the logic in life. Especially crappy life.

The thugs had shown even less interest—they had ditched me, just like that.

Imagine that!

If you have never had to deal with primitives like them, you don't understand how shocking that is. They never leave unfinished business. They don't let anyone go just because they have gotten sick of that person. A much more logical course of action would have been for them to throw me into the sea and tie me to the pillars of that pier or leave me locked in the lighthouse until I turned into dried mackerel.

True, they had beaten me up pretty good, but that wasn't such a big problem. The big problem was that I was free again.

Why that's a problem?

Because the whole thing smelled fishy from beginning to end. Smelled like dried mackerel. Smelled like mounds of rotting seaweed on damp beach sand on a cold November night.

### 13.

The road emerged from the forest on high ground, revealing a night vista of a town below, its lights flickering in the chilly, salty night air no more than a kilometer away. It was a ten minutes' walk, but in my state—more like twenty. The Black Sea was still to my right so I had been moving north. That got me thinking. How come the local thugs had cornered me on the north Izgrev beach? At first, it had seemed like they had responded to a report about a suspicious man walking around the once lively bars and cafes, now dejected beneath their cover of autumn frost. But then it became clear that they had been looking for me. They had been following me. They had seen me somewhere in the town center and followed me to the beach. They had just been waiting for the right moment and I had given it to them.

My head was throbbing—the cumulative effect of a now subsiding headache and a myriad of bubbling questions. I had to stop thinking, somehow get my ID back and get the hell away from these damn November beaches. Preferably before I went completely crazy.

Even with my slow pace, it wasn't long before the first silhouettes of houses started appearing on the side of the road. There was no sign to let me know what town I was entering. Probably because this road out of town led to nothing but the beach and the lighthouse. Nothing looked familiar to me, but one of my inner voices insisted that I was walking on the streets of Izgrev. My second inner voice, that of the idiot in me, was chirping about this town being Varna. My third inner voice, barely audible, was whispering a prayer.

I'm not the paranoid type to be scared of my own shadow. If someone wanted to find me, sooner or later they would. Unless fate had other plans. So I wasn't going to look around for signs of trouble. I have a rule: when crappy life gives you lemons, turn them down and get yourself coffee. Preferably Lavazza, one teaspoon of sugar.

I was back on the streets of Izgrev and they looked as deserted as the first time. Everything was closed and locked, there were no lights glowing in the windows, the place seemed evacuated. The brisk wind was carrying a faint scent of smoke, which brought on visions of wood-burning stoves, warm quilts and coziness. The town had the look of a place deep in its sleep, like half-past-two-in-the-morning asleep. That was probably the correct time too. At this hour, the only place to get coffee was a night club or a gas station. Have you ever stepped foot into a small-town night club all by yourself at half past two in the morning? Not to mention dressed in a woolen checked shirt and combat boots.

The gas station was the wiser choice.

On the way down to town, I didn't get the sense I was being followed, didn't spot anyone peeking behind a corner, didn't see suspicious vehicles passing me by.

Maybe it was actually safe to believe that both the police and the thugs had forgotten about me. Although I was really reluctant to do so. Miscalculations usually cost me dearly.

That though reminded me that I had no money. My camouflage jacket was on the north Izgrev beach with all my cash in it. My jeans pockets were empty and dejected. It was a bad starting point. The times were such that penniless strangers immediately put people on guard. If I had enough change and spent it freely, I passed as a swell guy virtually everywhere. Some even noticed my pretty eyes, high forehead and thick mane of hair peppered with silver at the temples. But whenever it became clear that I was broke those around me turned cold, stiffened and stepped back—as if being out of money was contagious.

I knew exactly what the gas station cashier's reaction would be when I asked for a free cup of coffee. He would instinctively look around to make sure that there was a fellow employee nearby. He would glance at the panic button. Then he would mumble something to deny me, without looking me in the eyes. I had been through it before. It wasn't all that bad, actually. One in every ten times I got lucky. You can ask a broker if those are good odds.

The gas station emerged behind the next corner, flooded in artificial lighting. There was only one car, but it was parked and in a way that suggested it didn't belong to a client. From across the street I could see that the girl from the night before was at the counter, wearing the same red shirt and her hair in a long, wavy ponytail. She had seemed kindhearted last time. I had a chance.

I shivered with cold and impatience. As far as needs went, hunger and thirst were one thing, but the overwhelming desire to have a nice cup of hot coffee was on a completely different level and deserved a stronger description. Drug withdrawal symptoms?

I counted six cameras—tree inside and another three outside. Did I really care?

Security cameras in small retail outlets don't provide live feed to be monitored in real time. They are there to record. If an incident takes place, the footage can then be checked to see whether the cameras captured any of it. The footage may never be requested, but it is normally saved for a week, two at the most, just in case. Then the storage space is cleared and used for new footage. In other words, my appearance in the gas station wasn't going to trigger any alarms.

As I was about to find out, however, my appearance in town had already triggered some alarms. I went to cross the street when a van materialized out of nowhere and stopped right in front of me. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw "police" written in white, faded letters on its side. Well, the word could have just as well been "hospice" or "justice" or anything else ending in "-ice" because the sliding door was open and covering all but the last three letters. A hand shot from the darkness within the vehicle, grabbed my shirt and yanked me inside. The door slid closed with a scraping sound, and the van drove off with the suddenness it had appeared.

### 14.

Now I was really confused. It didn't make any sense. I had the feeling someone was playing a game of cat and mouse with me.

The back of the van had no windows, so it was pitch dark and cold inside. It smelled of gas and rust, grains of sand were scratching the floor. The strong hands that had hauled me inside the vehicle pushed me to kneel on the floor and used rope to tie my wrists together at my back. I didn't hear a word in the process, but I was generously allowed to lie on my side before I could flop on my back at the next turn. Meaning, a knee pushed me to the floor.

We drove fifteen or twenty kilometers on paved roads, judging by the time it passed. By that point I half-expected them to turn onto a dirt road and drive across the nearest slopes of Mount Strandzha to the perfect spot where they could fire an entire clip in me and ditch my body into the first ravine.

Instead, the van slowed to a stop, then the driver crunched the gearshift into reverse. I could swear we were going up an ascent but it must have been a short one because the van stopped abruptly and the drive finally ended. Somewhere outside, iron thundered and scraped before the vehicle's rear doors opened with more thundering and scraping. The weak light filtering in was just enough to reveal the silhouette of my kidnapper.

"Get out!"

The van was parked in a closed space so his voice echoed.

"Move it!"

I dare you to try and stand up with your hands tied at your back after riding on the cold floor of a rusty van for a while.

I crawled to the back of the vehicle and the silhouette hauled me the rest of the way out. I stood on my feet and shuffled in the direction his iron grip was pulling my elbow.

We entered what seemed like a slightly better lit car shop. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed with tailpipes and mufflers, while the middle of the room was occupied by a hydraulic lift, with a car repair pit yawning darkly next to it. Cables crisscrossed the floor, a metal chair that looked like it had been made out of car parts was pushed next to one wall. It looked so awkward and poorly constructed that it could probably fetch over a million bucks in some New York art gallery. The air smelled of motor oil, petroleum, cigarette smoke and electrodes that had been involved in short circuits. Beneath the soles of my shoes, the floor was uneven; several times I stepped on what had to be small rocks or nuts or pieces of welded metal. Apparently, the cleaning lady had quit a long time ago.

I was politely guided to sit on the million-buck chair. The silhouette bent down to tie my feet with a hemp rope, then he started whispering in my ear—slowly, as if to make sure that I grasped the gravity of the occasion.

"You will talk only when asked questions. Answer to the point."

Relax, man! I don't like idle talk anyway.

The silhouette receded into the darkness—probably to give the floor to his boss. He forgot to mention whether I could look the big boss in the eyes. I took that oversight as a yes and strained to see as much as possible of the tall man who entered the room.

The first thing I noticed were his clothes. If the inspector back at the police station had been somewhat elegant, this guy was straight out of a magazine cover. From the Victorian era. At the very least, he looked like a BBC show host. That was how he spoke, too—refined speech with the type of perfect enunciation I had last heard in Emil Dimitrov songs.

"First, I would like to apologize for the manner of your arrival. I had asked the boys to bring you here as a friend, instead, you probably felt like a captive. Secondly, let me assure you that you are truly among friends. Thirdly, I would ask a bit of patience on your part so you can understand the purpose of your visit."

He suddenly reminded me of those prominent figures of the Bulgarian National Revival whose portraits decorated every classroom in elementary schools. Not the revolutionaries, though, the intellectuals.

The fine gentleman put on a pair of exquisite glasses—probably gold-rimmed—and stared at the papers he was holding in his other hand. Now he looked like a news anchor.

"'Somali man stabs one person to death and wounds two others in Australian city of Melbourne. Terrorist group Islamic State has taken responsibility for the attack.'"

He paused to let me digest the information and continued:

"'Prague police investigates rape of female tourist vising Czech Republic for Easter. Six men of Arab origin took turns raping her for hours.' 'Senegalese migrants rape and murder Italian teenage girl in Rome. The two men were residing in Italy illegally. They kidnapped the girl and took her to an abandoned house, where she was drugged, raped and murdered.' 'Van drives into a crowd of people not far from Catalunya Square, a popular gathering place for tourists in Barcelona. At least 13 are dead, over 20 are wounded. Spanish police have described the incident as an act of terror.'"

His voice was warm and deep, giving me the feeling of sitting at the TV studio of the local cable channel. I was waiting for him to throw it to the weather forecast any moment now. Instead, the stranger kept on reading in his melodious voice.

"'Eighteen-year-old girl brutally raped by over eight individuals in Freiburg. She was drugged by a Syrian man who has been living in Germany for four years and then raped by him and his friends.' 'Two female students sprayed with acid in Husum, Denmark. Eyewitness accounts describe the attackers as migrants. Reports say this was not the first time Arab migrants have targeted young Danish girls in attacks.' 'Truck ploughs into large crowd celebrating national day of France, killing more than 80 people and injuring over 120. The attacker is a French Tunisian.' 'At least six injured after car slams into crowd outside of sports center in Newcastle, northeast England. The driver has been identified as a Moroccan citizen residing illegally in the country.' 'Truck enters pedestrian zone in Stockholm and drives into crowd at high speed. At least two were killed, according to witnesses.'"

He finally went silent.

Cue the commercials. Likely featuring an ad or two about vacations in Tunisia or Morocco.

"Are you tired of listening to this, my friend?"

This man definitely liked the sound of his own voice. Why spoil his fun by interrupting him to share my opinions or considerations?

"Because we are sick and tired of it."

I couldn't really tell if he just flexed the royal we on me—like some postmodern French monarch—or his use of a plural pronoun included my travel buddies from the van who brought me here. I also had no idea what here was. This place could be anything, including the den of some militant religious sect dedicated to, once and for all, fixing what was wrong with the world through the zealous efforts of its precious few but fearless members.

"The European liberals, those money-grubbing vultures, are trying to give Europe to the savages on a silver platter. They bend over for all sorts of lowlifes who dare to cross their national borders: Africans, apes, Asians, Arabs, Muslims, terrorists... They stand and watch as their fellow Europeans are being killed, as their daughters and sons are being raped, as their houses are getting destroyed, as the aliens make a mockery of their faith."

It wasn't that I disagreed fundamentally with what he was saying, but I couldn't figure out why he was telling me these things. Was I at a private campaign rally?

"Europe is flooded with primitive scum. Those rats are trying to invade Bulgaria too. To destroy us—the descendants of King Simeon the Great and Vasil Levski ! But we are not going to just sit back and watch it happen."

After that impassioned speech, he came over to me and leaned down. He definitely liked to splurge on perfume.

"We must protect our country. Show every piece of trash out there that there is no place for them in Bulgaria. That every piece of trash who comes here to rape and kill will be raped and killed."

I was itching to respond, but decided to think for a minute instead. And the picture that started to crystalize wasn't good at all.

These guys had kidnapped me and dragged me to some car shop to educate me on what evil all refugees were. Me?! So they decided to just grab the first stranger and... I didn't think so. If they were hell bent on brainwashing people, that strategy wouldn't take them far.

No. My presence at this propaganda session was no coincidence.

They knew who I was and had targeted me specifically. Who had told them? Who had singled me out? Who was interested in me?

The inspector who questioned me?

The brawny fellas from the lighthouse?

One of them had gotten me a ticket to this private anti-migrant lecture at a car shop. I had no way of knowing which one.

The guy launched into his lecture again:

"Do you know what those men last night were? Terrorists. Arab terrorists posing as honest merchants. Do you know what these people normally try to pass as? Distributors of spices, agricultural consultants, real estate developers, importers of car parts... Can you imagine that?"

His voice boomed, bouncing off the walls of sheet metal.

"People like them deal in evil only, my friend. Within six months, at least one of them would have started raping or killing or running over or bombing innocent people in Munich, Vienna, or somewhere else. Christian people. White people."

Truthfully, I couldn't care less about the men from last night. I was more concerned with what was going on at the moment; and things weren't looking good. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place and I didn't like what I saw. Just as the minions of this raving nationalist hadn't simply stumbled upon me in town, the thugs hadn't stumbled upon me on the north beach. They had been expecting me. No. They had been following me. And that had started back at the police station, where they had been waiting for me. It explained why they had found me so easily.

"We do God's work. Anyone who helps us is our friend. Anyone who opposes us is our enemy. Being our friend or enemy is entirely up to you."

That's it. The thugs had been tipped that I would break out of the police station. That's why it was so easy. Garo had been sent to help me get out. Correction, to convince me to get out.

Who had sent him?

The thugs?

Garo's idol, Zorro?

Wait a second.

Wait a second!

I couldn't suppress a smile.

Have you seen a Zorro film? I've seen three of those. Do you remember how the gallant swordsman is dressed?

That's right.

And to whom had I likened the inspector who questioned me and then threw me in the police station basement? You got it—Chernorizec Hrabar, a monk dressed all in black. Some locals apparently preferred a different comparison. A matter of level of general knowledge, I reckoned.

Zorro.

Son of a bitch!

"Son of a bitch!"

"What?" the patriot got startled, as if I had woken him up in the middle of the night. "What did you just say?"

"I think you're in deep trouble."

"Excuse me?"

"In deep trouble. You have no idea how deep."

"You are in no position to make threats. Plus, it doesn't suit you, my friend."

"I'm not threatening you. We are all in deep trouble."

The inspector had failed to get much out of me. But I did have a slip during that conversation—the good Samaritan that I was—and it had to have convinced him that he was on the right path. That's why he let the thugs handle me. He would have known that he couldn't just call them to pick me up, wasn't happening. But if I tried to escape..., now that was much better. He would have seen that the beefy fellas had a greater chance of getting me to talk. And they had made me talk, without breaking a sweat. Because I was a blabbermouth.

They had known that I had been at the damn scene of the shooting the night before. So they had devised a plan together. Because in small towns mobsters and the police worked in unison. Something like the good-cop-bad-cop game, only on a larger scale. They aren't really enemies, they don't screw each other over—just the opposite.

So if both the good cop and the bad cop didn't know who shot the Arabs...

Things were really bad.

It meant they had missed something. Something big. And that was a blow to the image of both the police and organized crime. Someone was doing whatever he wanted in Izgrev and its outskirts, and they didn't even know who it was. A new player was throwing his weight around and that had to be fixed as quickly as possible. Preferably before word spread among the locals that the police and the thugs were good for nothing anymore—because that kind of rumor was prime to embolden some gutsy fella to try and take the town reins.

The elegant speaker before me let out a forced, even theatrical laugh:

"And why do you think we are in trouble?"

"If I were you, I'd run. And run very fast."

"We don't run. Ever."

The police and the mobsters had been left with no other choice but to set a trap. Dangle some idiot as bait. Whisper in the right ears that said idiot had witnessed everything that happened by that abandoned beach bar and that he was the one who called the emergency number. That he was proving to be a tough nut to crack, refusing to tell either the police or the local thugs anything.

I could easily follow their reasoning. That kind of news was bound to cause the blood pressure of the man behind the shooting to spike. Predictably, he would rush to look for the bait guy—to either shoot or catch him. Triple murder witnesses need a lot of breaks to live to retirement. And in this particular case the perpetrator was clearly a heck of a marksman.

"We don't run," the soon-to-be notorious nationalist repeated. "Danger doesn't scare us."

An unfamiliar silhouette of someone who had been standing outside burst into the car shop. The way he cut off his boss's pronouncement, something unusual and bad had to be going on.

"Three cars just got off the road in our direction."

"So what?! They may be clients."

Clients in the middle of the night?! This guy insisted on ignoring every single warning sign.

"Three black BMWs?" returned the newcomer. "Don't seem like clients to me."

"Fine," the patriot reluctantly agreed. "Take up positions. And don't do anything stupid."

He was still composed, but his voice had lost some of its aplomb. This turn of events had caught him off guard.

One thing I knew for sure. There was no room for a third entity in a small town. There were no secret societies, no alliances of former Special Forces, no underground clubs of officers in the army reserve. Anyone with aspirations to rise up in the criminal world had to make his bones either with the police or the local crime group. So whoever killed the refugees was no self-taught wacko. He was a trained, coldblooded shooter. Either from the police or the mobster ranks. And since I seemed to be both the police's and the mobsters' favorite candidate for the role of the idiot, Mr. Patriot here had had no trouble finding out about me. Perhaps he even got a first-hand account. His source could be any one of the policemen or the criminals I had encountered in the past twelve hours. And while I had been wandering around, looking for a way out, someone had already been shadowing me. Then that someone had caught and stuffed me in his rusty van to drag me to this car shop and give me a history lecture.

In the meantime, the police and the local mobsters had been crouching in the shrubs, anxiously waiting to see who would come after me (to either catch or shoot me down), waiting for their plan to ferret out the dimwit who had dared to run amok in their own backyard. So they could then deal with him the best way they knew how. As Whey told me, things like that just didn't happen in Izgrev. The mobsters, and the police, were always going to get to that dimwit. Then he disappears like he never even existed. The world has an excess of dimwits anyway.

Amen!

"It's a set-up."

"What?" the news anchor asked. "What is a set-up?"

"I am bait. They've followed me."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter who. Call 112."

"Why?"

The answer came before I could open my mouth. Bullets flew through the sheet-metal walls of the car shop accompanied by the familiar sharp cracks of gunshots. Somewhere outside, two windows were shattered in quick succession. Someone really close by started firing back. I hoped the attackers weren't packing any heavy weapons that could blow up the building with one shot.

My self-proclaimed mentor cursed and disappeared—either to join the gunfight or save his ass. The bullets kept whistling by. Shit was starting to hit the fan. Looked like the car shop boys were feeling the heat.

What was going to happen with me?

What were my options, did I have any left? Could I untie myself and run away? Did I even stand a chance of getting out of this mess alive? How was I supposed to weave through the onslaught of bullets? And even if I dodged them all, the winner of this skirmish could still shoot me from point-blank range, just in case. What could I do?

Was I dead meat?

No.

I was a goner.

### 15.

The fact that the chair was made out of various car parts was a true blessing. The blowtorch master behind that artwork had been sloppy with the welds and the metal pieces stuck out in all directions, kept together by short and lumpy links. I rubbed the rope binding my wrists against the jagged edge of the seat and it broke. The bonds around my ankles took a bit longer, but after a minute all my extremities were free.

If I had the situation right, the building was surrounded by armed and aggressive men. For now, that made escape less than the most sensible course of action. In theory, I could get to the van, start it and gun it, flying out of the car shop. In practice, the attackers would take me for one of the bad guys and pulverize me.

Why had they blitzed so decisively? Even if they somehow knew that I was inside, even if they knew that the owners of the car shop were some cracked nationalists, how did they know that those people were behind the murders of the Arabs?

The police and the mobsters must have had some idea about who could have done the job from the get-go. The locals knew everyone who had gone through their ranks and what was between the ears of each of those guys. Maybe they had suspected someone or several someones. Which is why they had waited to see who would fall for the trap. Not any random bloke, but who of those several someones. And that had been all the proof they needed.

Now they knew for sure.

I still had questions, though.

Why were they shooting—to put the fear of God into Mr. Patriot or to kill him? Were those Arabs such a big deal? If they were actually terrorists, as had been explained to me, no one would care about them enough to retaliate with a bloodbath.

Another barrage of bullets tore through the walls of sheet metal.

Lying down on the floor is the wisest choice in such situations. Statistically, that gives you the best odds of survival. I ducked at the same time as an explosion sounded outside. The thought that that was likely the van getting blown to smithereens had barely formed in my mind when the force of the blast sent me flying into the car repair pit. My shoulder hit its concrete edge before I crashed to the bottom, with my palms sinking into a greasy mire of motor oil and mud. One of the shelves collapsed, pouring mufflers and tailpipes on me in a deafening cacophony of clangs. Then silence engulfed the war zone.

It was short-lived, though. The last tailpipe had hardly settled on the pile of metal on top of me when I heard the voice of that well-mannered patriot again:

"Is anyone hurt? Is everyone here?"

"We're here," another voice confirmed. "Everything is OK."

"Is this blood?" the patriot's voice went up a register. "My God, your eye!"

"The bullet just grazed my cheek," a calm female voice returned. "It must've been a ricochet."

"Where's the witness?"

"He's gone. The ropes have been cut."

"He probably ran away."

The night air shuddered with another explosion outside.

"What a'e we going t-to do?" a third, strangely familiar voice, stuttered. "Those are maniac-cs out there."

"I heard over the police radio that my colleagues are on the way," the woman said. "They'll be here in two or three minutes."

"Go," the patriot ordered them with authority. "Take the door at the back. We'll meet at noon tomorrow."

"What about you?" the woman asked.

"The car shop is mine. I have to stay," he pointed out.

"Don't be silly, Ma'tin! It's too dange'ous. C-come on!" the stutterer, who was obviously hesitating to follow the woman, urged.

"Relax! They're not here to kill us," the patriot reassured him.

"Yeah, 'ight!"

"If they wanted to kill us, they would have snuck up on us and done their job without making noise."

Actually, that thought had crossed my mind too. This whole kerfuffle seemed more than a bit excessive. The patriot may have been naïve in his attempts to win me over, but he had some deductive reasoning skills.

"Come on, you should go, too. Let me deal with the police alone."

"Just help me pick up my gun."

"What gun?"

"The one I used t-to... you know."

"The one you used to shoot the refugees, you mean?"

"T-that's the one."

Uh-oh!

Are you starting to understand me better now?

Why did I have to find out that one of the men of this Martin fellow killed the refugees? What good could come out of me knowing this? Nothing. It only made my situation worse. I was already in possession of toxic information that more than one local was after. Those same people were ready to wreak havoc to get to it.

Why did it always have to be me?!

I was afraid to breathe. Literally. I made my breathing extremely shallow and quiet. I prayed that none of the tailpipes picked that moment to get itself more comfortable and attract the attention of the two patriots who remained in the car shop. If they became aware that I had been there the whole time, listening in on their conversation, they would unearth me and then press my head into the mire at the bottom of the pit, hold it there until I no longer showed signs of life.

"Where is it?" Martin finally asked.

"I hid it," Shooter said. "At the bot-ttom of the pit."

Aw, hell no!

It just wasn't fair!

I wanted to scream with anger. Why couldn't you find someplace else to hide it, fool? You had a whole damn car shop to choose from and you picked the exact place where the gunfire commotion engineered a hiding place for me!

I imagined them removing the heap of pipes and sheet metal to dig up the gun from the greasy mire and finding me instead – alive and well, my hearing perfectly in order, my curiosity as irrepressible as ever.

"We haven't got the time," Martin said. "Leave it. No one will bother to search there until tomorrow."

"I'm not su'e," Shooter argued.

Someone started banging on the car shop walls. People were talking, but I couldn't catch what they were saying.

"Go! It's time."

The shooter's footsteps receded. I had dodged a bullet. At least for now.

### 16.

"Well, would you look at that! What a chance meeting!"

The newcomer's words were punctuated by his careful steps—he was probably picking his way through the equipment scattered all over the place. The sound of sand crunching under his feet told me he was wearing expensive shoes. Sneakers can't do that. The steps came to a stop and the voice gave a humorless laugh:

"Martin himself!"

"You've got time for courtesy calls now? Have you run out of criminals to chase then?"

"The world will never run out of criminals," the newcomer returned. "Or worms."

"Why are you here, inspector?"

Martin injected a dose of sarcasm into the rank that few could manage. He had a talent for acting, no doubt. Maybe he had a future in some theatre company with an affinity for classics.

"We got a call about a gunfight in this dump."

"As you can see, there's no gunfight here, so you can go."

"Not so fast," the inspector paused. "We have to look around first."

"There's nothing to see here. Is this your first time in a car shop?"

"Sometimes what appears to be a car shop turns out to be a warehouse for, oh, I don't know, firearms, drugs, stuff like that."

"Don't you even dare think about it," Martin warned. "I'll destroy you, if you try to harass me!"

"Harass you? We are friends, remember?"

"We are no friends. And we can't ever be."

Another person rushed into the room, panting and speaking hurriedly:

"Here you go, Inspector Slavov! A list of what we found."

"What did you find?" the inspector asked. "I haven't got my glasses."

"Two rifles and a handgun. Also, this."

"Ho-ho-ho!" exclaimed Slavov like some sinister Santa. "As I expected. Keep going!"

The footsteps retreated quickly, leaving the patriot and the inspector alone again.

"Well, Martin? What do you have to say about that? I guess it's baking powder which you use to polish metal around here, huh?"

"You've always been a scumbag, Daniel!"

Daniel Slavov awarded that pronouncement with a smacking of his lips:

"Excellent quality! I'd say it's about two hundred grams. That'll get you twelve months in prison—free accommodation and communal bathrooms are its draws."

"You pin that on me and I'll make you regret it!"

Slavov let out another humorless laugh.

"I'm not going to pin anything on you. On the contrary, I'm going to help you escape the clutches of the law."

"What law, Slavov? Are you delirious?"

"Ah, Martin, Martin... I'm trying to save your ass, and you're posturing and pouting on me here!"

"I'll sue your ass off for this."

"You won't dare."

"Watch me!"

That was followed by a long pause, in which neither of them said a word. Maybe they had exchanged some signal, communicating that a man was underneath the mountain of pipes, his heavy breathing suddenly audible. My breathing. Maybe the police officer was already slowly unholstering his gun and pointing it at the bottom of the pit. Or maybe I was going crazy.

Finally, the inspector broke the silence. I could barely restrain myself from releasing all the pent up air in my lungs in one big huff.

"Martin... How about you drop the clown act, huh?"

Where had I heard this before? Maybe this morning at the police station from Chernorizec Hrabar. It suddenly dawned on me that he and the guy here may be the same person. How many inspectors could there be in a small police station? Or was my time in Izgrev making my imagination run wild?

"So it's not enough for you to sully my car shop with your presence, you now dare to be blasphemous under my roof?!"

The inspector must have tried and failed to decipher this accusation because he settled for:

"How about I clean your car shop from all traces of human presence for the next two years?"

"You can't do that," Martin said. "You're just yapping."

"You think so? If I..."

"What do you want?"

The inspector was in no rush to answer. I heard the click of a lighter—he was probably lighting a cigarette.

"I want the bastard who shot the Arabs."

"What Arabs are you talking about, mister?! Do you hear yourself..."

"The ones you killed, you idiot!" the inspector interrupted. "The Arabs who have cost me three straight nights of sleep and will cost some people their heads by tomorrow morning."

"I see you've liquored up on cheap whiskey again."

"Now listen to me carefully because I'll explain this to you only once. Four Arabs were to pass through here, and I was supposed to ensure their safe passage to Burgas. The operation was run by highly-ranked people, it took a long time to prepare and failure was not an option. But then some dimwit with a hero complex turns up and kidnaps the Arabs under my nose. He holds them captives for twenty-four hours, God knows why, before he decides, probably because he got spooked, to get rid of them and kills them. Does this sound familiar to you?"

"It sounds lame to me."

The inspector took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A sure sign that he was barely restraining himself from strangling the other guy with his own hands.

"You have no idea what's going to happen to you when the security services get wind of your involvement. You'll never wear anything other than a prison uniform again."

"Ooh, I'm shaking with fear now."

"I'm telling you we can fix this without making noise," the inspector said, lowering his voice. "Just me and you."

"There's nothing to fix, mister," Martin mimicked his tone. "But I would suggest you change whatever prescription drug you're on. It's obviously not doing you any good."

"You're not being all that helpful. What is worse, you're not helping yourself," the inspector said.

Aha! There was no mistaking that phrasing. Now I knew for certain that this inspector and the one who had thrown me in the police station's basement were the same person. Zorro!

"I think you should seek professional help, inspector."

"Zachary," the police officer called. "Come here."

Then he crushed something under his shoe—presumably the cigarette butt.

"I'll get you an expedited procedure, I promise. You'll get a year, three at the most."

"If I go down, I'm dragging you with me, you know that. I have some things up my sleeve, too."

"You can shove those up your ass! Zachary!"

Several pairs of feet scurried over.

"Arrest this man."

"You'll regret this," Martin threatened. "I'll make you pay for it."

"Three days in the basement and you'll be singing a different tune, my friend... Get him out of here."

"Hey, Slavov!" Martin called on his way out.

"Yes?"

"Black was in vogue twenty-five years ago. You might want to mix it up a bit."

"Take him away!" Zorro barked. "And you, shut up!"

"The kids in the neighborhood call you Batman, you know that?" Martin said as a parting shot.

Silence fell over the room again. The inspector started pacing, kicked something that clattered down the floor.

"Fucking dickhead!"

### 17.

Everyone had gone away, leaving the car shop empty and quiet... and lit. Large lamps were hanging on long chains from the ceiling and I intended to leave them on to avoid attracting attention in case someone was still watching the place. I managed to crawl out from under the heap of tailpipes and mufflers at the cost of horrific clanging, several bruises and scrapes and a considerable amount of sweat. When I finally climbed out of the pit I had the look of a coal-miner after a grueling shift. The oily mud from the bottom of the pit had soaked through my clothes, probably my skin as well. That mud had to be the grossest thing in human history. A sniff of it was enough to etch the memory of its stench in my brain for all eternity. And I had lain in it for half an hour.

I had dug out the gun that Shooter had been talking about, and now I was holding it the way an archeologist would hold a crystal skull.

Shooter had thought to wrap it in two plastic bags before stashing it in the mud. I wasn't going to unwrap it. I didn't want my prints on a murder weapon. I had no interest in touching it or looking at it. The only thing I intended to do was hide it somewhere else—a place where only I would know to look for it.

Why?

Because the way things were going, I was soon going to need insurance. Life insurance. And that gun could prove to be an excellent one.

***

It was a big car shop. Calling it a small hangar wouldn't be that much of a stretch. Off-road vehicles, visibly in the process of getting repaired, were parked in two of the corners. The shelves were struggling under the weight of all sorts of tools, car parts, pieces of glass and sheet metal, pipes, etc.

Martin had been right—the mobsters' goal had not been to kill anyone. The bullet holes in the walls were close to the ceiling. The van with the faded lettering had been blown up not so much to hurt someone as to leave the patriotic bunch without a getaway vehicle. It would seem the entire hubbub had been designed to give the police an excuse to arrive at the scene and possibly apprehend the individuals who had captured and killed the Arabs.

Only, that wasn't supposed to be a concern of Slavov's, or that of the local police department as a whole. So why was Chernorizec Hrabar conducting his own investigation? Was it because he had failed to ensure the Arabs safe passage to Burgas and now his ego was bruised? Was it because one of his superiors was breathing down his neck? Was it because he wanted to take his anger out on someone? I didn't know.

Behind one of the doors, I found a changing room with a bathroom equipped with a sink, a shower and a water heater. I hesitated, but that indecisiveness lasted no longer than three breaths. Even crappy life has its small joys.

Taking a shower is an intimate experience of the highest order. For the next ten minutes I completely tuned out reality, so much so that when I turned the shower off and opened my eyes, it took me three more breaths worth of time to remember who and where I was.

Two minutes later I was standing before the empty metal lockers in the changing room. I had been hoping to find some clothes. But the closest thing to clothing in there was a big piece of thin fabric, from a parachute or something similar. I wrapped it around me to save myself from freezing in the cold car shop, but it wasn't a viable solution for the road.

The floor was grimy and as I was exploring the other rooms my bare feet picked up pebbles, metal shavings, screws and even a piece of blue seashell.

Finally, I got lucky and found what looked like an office. The lamps were not on, but even without the benefit of light I could make out the silhouettes of a desk, a computer, two file cabinets, a pedestal fan, a coffee machine and a water cooler dispenser. In one of the desk drawers someone had placed carefully folded underwear, socks, t-shirts, a pair of pants and even two shirts. It wasn't much, but it was all I needed.

I reckoned the clothes belonged to Martin because they were expensive to the touch and a size larger than what I would have preferred. I spotted a pair of dress shoes under the desk, but decided it would be a bit much. I liked my shoes better, no matter how beat-up and dirty they were.

I dressed, folded the "parachute" up and returned it to its original place, then went back to the bathroom. What I saw in the mirror wasn't all that bad. Only... my hair gave me an extraterrestrial look. It was coated in a thick layer of pit mud. No matter how many times I had soaped under the shower, the filth had stubbornly refused to come out. It even seemed to have thickened and coagulated from the soap, looked poised to spend the rest of eternity perched on my head. It was as if I was wearing a hat—an ugly, stinky and sticky hat.

I had no choice but to make peace with that look. Maybe the disgusting slime was going to dry and crumble on its own. Or maybe my hair was going to fall off first. It seemed like a secondary concern either way.

I got down to cleaning the greasiness off my shoes, all the while thinking about the best place to hide the gun. The first thing that popped in my head was the toilet tank. It was clichéd but that was exactly why no one would ever think to look for it there. Unfortunately, the toilet turned out to be a newer model without a tank. Well, technically, there was one, but it was built into the wall, behind drywall panels.

As I was looking around, I noticed an art installation made out of car parts standing by a column between the roll-up doors. It looked like a modern version of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. It also reminded me of a robot out of the pages of Pif Magazine which I used to peruse as a child. The shop's mechanics must have put it together on a rainy afternoon just to keep themselves busy. Local welders appeared to have an affinity for sculpture—first that rickety chair and now this... I put on my shoes and went to have a closer look.

On its front side, the humanoid had a small hinged door, the type a wood-burning stove would have. Or was that creation actually a stove? Whatever its purpose, it was covered in rust, having obviously been out of use and neglected for a while. In other words, it made for a good hiding place. The gun, all wrapped up in plastic bags, would comfortably fit in there and still leave enough space for a few more. I tried to open the door, but my fingers just slipped on the rust. I took a wrench from one of the shelves and had to exert a lot of force to crack the door open. It became immediately obvious to me that I could not leave the gun inside.

The gut of the humanoid was stuffed with stacks of bills, also wrapped in a plastic bag. There weren't that many bills but they all had face value of either fifty or a hundred bucks, and the total amount must have been close to two hundred thousand.

My first impulse was to grab the money and dash across the grassland or forest or whatever surrounded this place. At least that is what my idiot inner voice was screaming for me to do. But then my other inner voices chimed in with more sensible suggestions that I just couldn't ignore. The monthly cost for my life insurance had just doubled.

The modernist Tin Man was staring blankly at me. It had turned out to be a stove after all. A grate covered in ash was visible beneath the bills. There was another small door below it—probably how the ash was taken out. The cone-shaped hat topping the Tin Man's head had likely extended into a stove pipe at one time. Now the stove served as a decoration. And a unique safe.

I looked around.

Anyone who put his mind to really, thoroughly searching the car shop would ransack the place and find all its treasures, no matter how well hidden. So my initial plan was not going to work. Had to put a little more effort into this. I found a shovel and walked out into the cold night.

***

It was still dark outside. My biological clock indicated it was about half past four in the morning, but I had no real reason to trust it. Strong emotions and dramatic experiences tend to affect sense of time.

The light streaming out through the windows was enough to reveal the landscape around me. There was a big parking lot with about a dozen clunkers and a dumpster. Near the gate in the chain link fence, there was an empty doghouse with a faux satellite dish sitting on its roof. I instantly recognized it as the perfect hiding place. I went over to take a closer look. A carpet, a blanket and some kind of old jacket covered the floor. The dog had obviously lived there for a long time, as its yellow—or were they white—hairs littered everything on the floor like a cover of autumn leaves.

I lifted the carpet up and laid out the stacks of bills.

I felt like some cheapskate stashing his undeclared, hard-earned millions under the mattress.

On the other side of the fencing I saw a haphazard pile of old tires, probably waiting for someone to load them up and take them for recycling.

I walked out through the open gate, the stiff soil crunching beneath my feet. I dug a small hole in the ground near the pile and placed the gun at its bottom. Thank God the shovel had to break through only a thin crust of frozen dirt, which covered a soft, moist lower layer. I backfilled the hole and stomped on it to compress the muddy bump that had formed. To fully conceal the hiding place—and make it easier for me to find it later—I rolled a tire on top of it. I cleaned the shovel and leaned it against the dumpster.

Now I was ready to go.

I scraped the sticky mud off my shoes and started down the narrow paved road. I had taken only a few steps when a quiet voice in my head told me to go back and take the shovel, or at least the wrench I had used to open the humanoid stove. Just to be on the safe side. Like regular people carry umbrellas when the weather forecast says "chance of rain". But the sky was figuratively clearing up for me, and I doubted I would run into someone in the middle of nowhere and in the dead of night.

There were no stars or moon or any point of reference to help me find my bearings. So I just put one foot in front of the other.

***

OK, what had I learned?

Daniel Slavov was supposed to make sure that the Arabs got to Burgas without a hitch or getting any inkling that someone had been following them and planning their apprehension for months. But a group of self-proclaimed patriots kidnaps them and upsets not only Slavov's plan, but that of the relevant security agency. Adding insult to injury, the patriotic bunch does away with the Arabs. Well, that was a botched operation if I'd ever seen one! Slavov probably had serious brass up his ass right now. That explained why he was so edgy.

From what I had seen, Martin didn't look like a killer of refugees to me. Not even close. He seemed more likely to ask them for a falafel recipe than kidnap, hold them captives and kill them. But for some reason that was what had happened. His stuttering friend, Shooter, had whacked three of the four Arabs, as he had openly admitted in the car shop.

Slavov had actually recovered from the fiasco pretty well. He had gotten to the bottom of it and found Martin there. The most logical next step was to report back to one of his superiors and hand the baton for the next leg of the investigation. He had already messed up—there was nothing he could do to redeem himself. But Slavov was determined to finish the investigation. He must have taken it personally. Or was there something else?

***

The paved road took me to a larger paved road. Judging by its width, this had to be the main road connecting Burgas and Sinemorets. I had the option to head left or right, but there were no distance signs to show me which way Burgas was. However, there was a narrow pull-off—and a black vehicle parked there. It was blending in with the darkness, which explained why I hadn't seen it until it was already too late. A big truck loaded with timber thundered past me and briefly illuminated the parked car. Two mugs I would be happy to never see again were staring at me from the front seats. They were at the foot of a billboard of an SUV with the inscription "Studio Off-Road". It was probably advertising the car shop I had just left.

The driver's door opened and Biceps got out of the car. His shaved head was gleaming white like the moon.

"Long time no see, khan!" he sneered. "Where you been?"

Now I regretted the decision not to grab that wrench for the road. I should have taken it and a monkey wrench and a couple of screwdrivers and maybe cables. Even with that arsenal, I wouldn't have stood much of a chance, but at least I would have put up a fight.

It was all surreal. The dumb bully somehow managed to find me at the most inopportune moments.

"You took your sweet time," Biceps leaned against the front of the BMW and crossed his arms. "What kept you so busy in that dump?"

"I was doing your sister."

Biceps growled and bore down on me.

"You're a dead man!"

"I stuck around because she couldn't get enough of me."

The burly fella was galloping now. I braced for a punch and instead he put me in a weird lock. He folded me in half and hauled me to the car. Stuffed me in the trunk and spat on me:

"You're not leaving Izgrev alive."

### 18.

I woke up to the sounds of footsteps and muted voices. I opened my eyes and saw nothing. It was dark and I was on my back, lying on something hard and cold. A sliver of light sliced through the dark to my left. The air was stale and held the scent of bleach. Grains of sand were sticking to my palms; somewhere beyond that precious strip of light two men were in an animated discussion.

I was lying on the unaccommodating floor of the holding cell at the Izgrev police station.

It wasn't an immediate realization. It took me several minutes of exploring the room and feeling the bare walls and, crucially, the metal door with no handle on the inside before I was certain.

At first, I thought everything had been a dream—the patriots, the bottom of the pit, the lighthouse, the north Izgrev beach, Garo. That I had been in this room this entire time, watching a vivid but rather cheap and not particularly captivating film in my head.

But then my fingers felt the expensive fabric of the shirt I had put on in the car shop and I realized that none of it had been a dream. I sat down with my back pressed against the wall.

Right.

So Daniel Slavov had used me to obtain whatever information he needed and then left me to the thugs. The thugs had used me to obtain whatever information they needed and had left me to Martin. The only reason why he hadn't been able to use me was because that surprise attack against the car shop had interrupted the proceedings. In other words, they had toyed with me for the past day, pursuing their selfish interests and trying to one-up each other in settling old accounts. I felt like a bowling pin, or a bowling ball at best. I had been used. And the neatest thing about it was that, officially, I never left my temporary prison. Meaning that, in the eyes of the world at least, I couldn't have seen or heard what I had seen and heard during that time. No matter what I had to say, my word would be worth nothing.

I found it hard to believe that anyone other than Zorro could have devised this plan!

Dude was clever!

Now what? Did he have other clever plans for me; was he going to use me for more games? Or was he going to get rid of me like one would turn a poor relative away? Or was I going to vegetate here until Friday, possibly even Monday? Good to know I had options, each one better than the next.

The shirt sleeves were too long on me so I rolled them up, which made me think of Martin. Had they stuck him in a room nearby? Or had they sent him to a bigger facility?

My personal experience with arrests was that the higher a police station stood on the pecking order, the worse conditions it offered for locking up people. The most decent holding cells are in small towns—that's where the most decent cops are too. In Gotse Delchev, for example, the desk sergeant brought me home-cooked traditional cheese pastry and locally produced boza .

Sitting locked in a foul-smelling basement somewhere didn't sound like Martin. He would get hotel rooms—for himself and the police officers guarding him—before he would allow himself to be reduced to warming the floor of a holding cell in the Izgrev police station. But those were his problems and I didn't care about them all that much. I had plenty of my own.

I was about to get up and start banging on the door, when it clicked and opened. Fresh air rushed into the room and the darkness was chased away by bright light coming from the lamps in the hallway.

"Get out!"

I stood up and shuffled toward the door. The improvised cuff of the pants I had done earlier had unrolled and I could feel the back of the pants legs dragging on the floor.

"Come on, I have a ton of work!"

The police officer waiting outside the door was the same one I had seen with the beautiful policewoman at the gas station the previous morning. He looked sleepy, hungry and grumpy. Maybe he was there to take me to the police station yard, have me leaning against a wall and shoot me. Instead, he turned right and led me down the hallway—in the direction of the desk sergeant, according to Garo's instructions from earlier. So they were going to release me.

***

"Well, would you look at that!" Daniel Slavov eyed me up and down and nodded. "What have you done to your hair?"

The older policeman had taken me to Zorro's office, knocked on the door and given me a slight push to go inside.

"Have a seat," Zorro said now.

I remained standing and fixed my gaze on the familiar sea landscape painting on the opposite wall. This time around, my eyes were drawn to something on the rocks where angry waves crashed—a lighthouse. It was probably the same as the one where Whey and his henchmen had kept me for interrogation. It wasn't a beautiful painting, but its symbolism seemed to be about guiding light. Or was it hinting at something phallic? Didn't matter, police chiefs were not exactly renowned for their taste in interior design. The inspector took a good look at my matted hair and frowned.

"You might want to take a shower, you stink."

I had no interest in talking to him. I was busy choosing the right office item to bash his head with—it was between a hefty metal stapler and a brass plaque.

"I watched security camera footage," Daniel Slavov said and looked straight into my eyes before he finished, "that shows you dressed in a denim jacket."

I just kept silent and glared back.

"The date and time stamp on the video puts that moment about two hours after the murders of the three Arabs we are currently investigating."

The inspector got out of his chair and moved closer, still keeping a safe distance between us.

"Your denim jacket had blood on it."

Security camera footage is generally of decent quality. Decent enough to tell the difference between a human being and a fuel pump. But it takes experts or specialized software to read a license plate number, for example. I doubted Zorro had had time to have experts examine the footage.

"It wasn't blood," I finally spoke.

"No?" the inspector feigned surprise. "What then?"

"Crap," I returned with the most insolent smile I could muster. "I was so scared I shat myself."

Daniel Slavov lit up a cigarette and offered me one, just like last time. He probably passed as a generous guy around these parts.

"Statute of limitations for murdering two or more individuals is thirty-five years. Essentially, you can be charged with the crime at any point during the remainder of your life."

"I can't wait to see the evidence."

"Don't you worry about that. We've got this covered."

My mind flashed back to last night when Slavov's men had "found" drugs in the car shop. He could always frame me for something, anything... if he wanted to.

"Am I fortunate for meeting you or what?"

"Emil... are you always such a hardheaded bastard?"

"Let's hear the short version."

"In short, I intend to release you," Daniel Slavov blew out a long stream of smoke. "I will break protocol, without regard for the consequences, and let you go."

"I don't do deals with police officers."

"No deals," Zorro smiled. "No catch, no small print."

He went back to his chair behind the desk and ground the cigarette in a glass ashtray. A thin line of smoke continued to curl upwards from the white butt.

"There's only one condition: you have to leave Izgrev within a half hour."

"And never come back?"

The inspector grinned.

"No need for extremes. You are welcome to visit us in the summer as a tourist. Our town has great hotels, restaurants and attractions to offer. You'll have an unforgettable time."

"Can do. But I have one condition too."

Daniel Slavov removed some black speck of dust from his black suit jacket.

"I don't do deals with individuals in custody."

"That's not what I heard."

I was referring to the trick that he and Garo had played on me, but the inspector obviously had an extensive catalogue of reasons to have guilty conscience because he bristled at the insinuation:

"Watch your mouth."

The inspector was sitting at his desk, fiddling with a single key on a keychain in the shape of a black cat. This guy was crazy about everything black. It occurred to me that if kids in the neighborhood really called him Batman, all he was missing was Catwoman. It was too funny. He mirrored my smile without having any idea why I was smiling in the first place. Then he turned serious and put down the keychain.

"The best thing you can do is forget everything you saw or heard during your time in Izgev."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"So I don't know anything?"

"You don't know anything."

"Can do," I nodded carelessly. "But I assume that, as someone with such deep knowledge of the penal code, you know that the statute of limitations for creating, leading and participating in an organized crime group is also quite long?"

Zorro gaped at me, his eyes narrowed to slits, and then he hurled the glass ashtray at me. It missed the mark, hit the door behind me and thudded on the floor in a cloud of ash and thin, white butts. The sound must have alarmed someone in the hallway because the door cracked open.

"Everything is fine, Zachary," the inspector assured with a wave of his hand. "Wait outside."

The door shut. Zorro fixed his suit jacket and settled back into his chair. He signed some documents before he started talking low, as if to himself.

"I have gathered enough evidence to make your life a living hell. If you try to tell anything to anyone at any point in time, this evidence will be used against you. I'm giving you this one chance to leave and never come back. Take it and get lost. No more mulligans."

That sounded like the Izgrev version of reading a suspect his rights. Daniel Slavov stood up, handed me the documents and gave me a withering look.

"I'm sure this won't be your last encounter with the law enforcement."

"I doubt I'll be missing you," I smiled in response. "No shortage of dimwits out there."

"You really are hardheaded. I could use someone like you on my team."

"I'm not looking for job offers."

"How about a kick in the ass, then?" Slavov opened the door for me and threw me a malicious look. "I could always mistake your head for your ass."

"I think you should seek professional help, inspector. Change whatever prescription drug you're on."

Zorro gaped at me again and started nervously searching my eyes, one at a time. I had just repeated word-for-word what Martin had told him last night and my message was pretty clear: I was in the car shop and heard your entire conversation with Martin. Daniel Slavov got my message, probably making his blood pressure spike to a record level. But once again he managed to regain his composure and assume an air of a busy man. He took out another cigarette, picked up the ashtray off the ground and blew to remove whatever was left in it.

"Remember, you have a half hour."

***

Zachary turned out to be the same police officer I had seen that morning at the gas station. Without that distinctive police jacket, the dark blue sweater of his uniform gave him an even more nondescript look. He was definitely older than me, which meant a veteran by police standards. Of all cops, I dislike old veterans the most—they are rock solid and can sniff my dubious character from a mile away.

Zachary escorted me to the desk sergeant and then out into the bright morning sun.

"We have a saying around here," he began, as we stood on the sidewalk. "Sometimes the sea looks blue and sometimes green."

Clearly, Zachary was tasked with driving the message home—that not everything I had seen or heard was what it seemed. It sounded like a friendly advice or even him imparting fatherly wisdom. Old police officers like that sort of lecturing. Hearing a cop preach morality is...

"Some types of fish," he went on, "have such strong bones that you are better off not even trying to eat them."

"And in Sofia," I nodded thoughtfully, "we like to say 'What happens in Izgrev stays in Izgrev'."

"Really?"

"No. I lied."

"Well, whatever," the police officer looked away and grinned. "You're late, Aleksieva!"

I turned to look in the same direction. Miss Izgrev, the remarkably attractive local policewoman, was walking toward us on the sidewalk. Yesterday morning at the gas station she had struck me as a real ice queen, but her beauty had somehow withered since then. She, too, looked sleepy, hungry and grumpy. Obviously, the big criminal case was draining the lifeblood out of the Izgrev police department and its staff.

"Just the opposite," she said, attempting a smile. "I'm early."

She wasn't in uniform. Instead, she was wearing a black leather skirt, clearly made of the skin of some poor small animal because it was barely mid-thigh length. A black turtleneck shirt accentuated her feminine curves, noticeable even underneath the black coat she had on. She was either in mourning or getting ready to ask for a promotion. Oh, and she also had black boots. Actually, the first thing that caught the eye were her high heels.

Zorro sure was setting the tone for this police station when it came to Black Sea chic and the rest of the bunch was following him blindly. Either that or they were subtly mocking him.

In another life, I had this boss who had a reputation for being capricious and unbalanced. The entire staff kept bending over backwards to please him and cozying up to him, without suspecting their efforts were doomed to fail. One weekend he surprisingly went all the way to Austria for an AC/DC concert. Personally, I thought the music event was a cover for his annual Vienna meeting with his money-laundering communist bosses. But my co-workers figured that he was genuinely a fan of the band so they took that info and ran with it—by Monday the office was buzzing to Hells Bells and Back in Black set as ringtones.

I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in Izgrev was trying to emulate Zorro with the same motives.

"What happened to your face?" Zachary studied his partner with typical police subtlety.

There was a long piece of Band-Aid on the beauty's left cheekbone, just under her eye.

"Just a scratch," Aleksieva said and teased, "I cut myself while shaving."

She winked at him, squared her shoulders and walked into the station, without so much as glancing at me. I was willing to bet my precious old shoes that she was the chick who last night warned Martin about the police being on their way. What had she said exactly? "I heard over the police radio that my colleagues are on the way" or something of the sort. Her colleagues, huh?

Maybe in Izgrev the sea really did look sometimes blue and sometimes green.

### 19.

It was a nice day, as far as early November weather went. People, young and old, were milling around in the streets, just like in that old Vasil Naydenov song. A wonderful day to leave a small town behind. Nothing was keeping me in Izgrev any longer. All that was left for me to do was get the hell out of there. But before that I had to get my belongings from the camouflage jacket. I hoped to find it on the north beach the way I had left it there.

By the time I got to the beach, I was huffing and puffing. My brisk pace had nothing to do with the half hour that Zorro had so generously given me, though. It was more that I couldn't wait to get my things back. I found the jacket hanging there on the cane-reed roof—untouched, with all my stuff still in it. It dawned on me that with people like Zorro and Whey in town, petty crime in Izgrev was probably trending toward non-existent. Even Garo had said he didn't dare steal.

I put all my belongings in my pants pockets and grabbed the jacket. I wasn't going to leave it at the mercy of the elements. I would find some way to return it to its rightful owner, just as I originally intended.

By the time I got back to the center of Izgrev, I had already gone over the half hour that Slavov had given me in his ultimatum. From that point on, it didn't really matter whether I staid five more minutes or five more hours, so I wasn't in a hurry. I was strolling down the sidewalk, enjoying my freedom. Walking by a store, I caught a glimpse of my silhouette in the window display and stopped to study my reflection. My hair was wildly sticking out and flat at the same time. Instinctively, I ran a hand over it to smooth it out and my fingers came out smeared with that indomitable mixture of mud, motor oil and grease. This slime had to go. A poster of a smiling young man was plastered on the inside of the window—he looked amused by my hairstyle.

I found a hairdresser two blocks away. The sign outside read "Beauty Salon", but it was really a barbershop. Inside, a heavy woman sat in a chair, smoking and reading a newspaper. She looked like one of those matrons in this old Russian animation who wielded giant needles to sew "Gift" patches to sacks full of New Year's Eve presents.

"Good day!" I started. "Can I get a haircut?"

"Sit over there!" She instructed without bothering to look up from the paper.

I settled into an ancient chair in front of the mirror and waited patiently. For a second, it reminded me of the electric chair, but then I had to smile at my own wild imagination. Actually, a doctor once told me that such feats of technology and science as the electric chair, the guillotine and lethal injections were never used in Bulgaria. Hanging and shooting were the preferred execution methods. Traitors got their bullet to the back of the head.

Patriotic Forum of Izgrev—that was what the poster I'd seen earlier read. And I was willing to bet the image on it was of a younger, more cheerful Martin. Maybe the poster was from an older election campaign. Either that or someone had gone Photoshop-happy.

"Did you stick your head in the sewer?" the woman finally deigned to pay attention to me. "What is this slime?"

"I went for a swim in the sea," I said. "Ran into a slick."

"You must've been drunk as a sailor."

"I've been through worse."

"Well, let's make this thing better for you."

She warned me to sit still and proceeded to buzz my entire head, skin tight. She had done away with half of my hair before I managed to snap out of my shock. I shook my head as if to chase an annoying fly and shouted for her to stop. The woman turned off the electrical clippers and slapped my nape hard.

"Don't move or I might cut you."

It was all over in about thirty seconds. The matron brushed off lingering hair clippings, putting the finishing touches to her handiwork. She put her equipment back in its place and got the barber's cape off of me.

"There you go. That'll be five bucks."

"Why?"

That was the sole word I managed to get out. I was truly stunned. It had been 25 years since the last time someone cut off all my hair. I felt like a complete idiot.

"It's Wednesday. We offer a discount on Wednesdays."

Actually, I didn't look all that bad. My skull had a pleasant shape and the woman had given me a uniform cut. Several scars marred my now exposed skin, though. The memories of what thrilling event stood behind what mark had long mixed up in my head. Crappy life offers plenty of opportunities for adventure. It also has a way of teaching you to ignore the voice of vanity.

I paid the woman with my last bill and stepped out to the sunlit sidewalk. I was down to change, which made me feel freer. A feeling heightened by the absence of hair on my head.

I needed a cup of coffee, a moment to let the reality of my newfound baldness sink in. And I had to do this before I set off for Burgas. Otherwise, given my success rate with trying to hitch a ride around these parts, my next coffee might not be until tomorrow. Plus, the gas station was on my way, I could already see it in the distance.

I almost collided with Veronica at the door. She didn't recognize me, wasn't even paying attention to me, actually. I had to wave a hand in front of her face to get her to lift her eyes from the ground.

"Hello!"

"O!" Veronica exclaimed, nonplussed, but then recognition dawned. "You've cut your hair!"

"Something like that."

She looked around, as if in the act of doing something illegal or improper.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I am on my way out of town."

Veronica stole another furtive glance about. She looked like a hunted doe... or a wild rabbit? I'm not good with metaphors.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked.

"Probably."

I imagined Zorro standing at the city limit sign with a watch in one hand and a double barrel shotgun in the other, dressed all in black, a veritable Wyatt Earp.

"I need to give you something. Can you wait for me to go get it?"

"Here?"

"No, no... not here. There's a café a little up the road, Lagoon. I'll see you there."

Pretty much every time a beautiful girl had ever offered to meet up I had gotten roped into unfortunate adventures and ended up in some dingy basement, tied up and beaten to within an inch of my life. I still decided to wait for her. Veronica looked like she could use an ally or two in this town. I was probably the only one to have even noticed that she was being subjected to assault and harassment by the local thugs. Likely no one else had bothered to explain to her that those actions were unacceptable and that she should fight for her rights. But she'd better not get it into her head that I would lead the discontented people of Izgrev in a revolt. I pictured her presenting me with a flag on which she had personally embroidered "Freedom or Death". Thanks, but no thanks, young lady!

"I'll wait for you," I said.

Veronica nodded and headed in the direction I had come from.

***

It was the same café where I had ordered toasts yesterday. The same stuttering young man with thick local accent was manning the bar. To spare him the inconvenience of complex words, I order coffee and club soda. I didn't dare eat anything prepared in that place anymore. I took a seat and put the camouflage jacket on the chair beside me.

The twelve o'clock newscast was on TV and showing a now familiar face. This time Captain Simeonov was concise; the investigation was almost closed after a local individual with criminal record had made a full confession to the police. The murder weapon was still missing, but the confession confirmed and shed further light on one of the theories that the investigators had been working on—of a drunken quarrel that broke out between refugees and local scum.

Ho-ho-ho! as Daniel Slavov would say. The only truth that came out of the captain's mouth was that the police were still looking for the murder weapon—because I had personally buried it outside of Martin's car shop. Everything else was fabricated. I now knew that the Arabs were more than regular refugees and that the police were taking care to cover up that fact.

Labeling every Arab who crosses our path a refugee is nothing but prejudice. Most Arabs living in Bulgaria are neither refugees nor doner kebab chefs. It's not like doctor and engineer are unheard-of professions for the Arab diaspora, but the most common occupation is running a business. More specifically, export and import, wheeling and dealing. What exactly they import into Bulgaria is, generally speaking, not something I need to know. But if I were in the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire chair and playing for a second safety net with no lifelines left, my best guess would be "B: Drugs".

Now that made the triple murder case even more heavy stuff. Clearly, a lot of money was involved, all of it dirty— politicians in organized crime's pocket, influence peddling, corruption, bribery, extortion, bought silence and God knows what else. Things far above the pay grade of the local police department. Things that make you lose your appetite.

"One c-club soda," the bartender stuck a straw in the green bottle and served it along with my coffee. "Cup of c-coffee."

Shit!

Was I starting to lose my mind?

No, I would recognize that voice in my sleep. Either the guy serving me drinks was Shooter from that patriotic bunch or my brain had turned to mush in the local humid climate. This young man was stuttering in a thick accent just like the one from last night. Even buried under a pile of tailpipes and mufflers, I had heard every single sound of his unique speech pattern. It was definitely him. The problem was he looked nothing like a man capable of shooting three Arab strangers in cold blood. Even with my twisted imagination, I couldn't picture the poor, shy young man before me with a gun in his hand.

Izgrev was showing some truly baffling colors.

The young man had just said something that I had missed, lost deep in my thoughts.

"Say that again?"

"Whe'e did you get the jac-cket?"

"What?"

"The jac-cket," he pointed to the camouflage jacket on the chair next to me. "Whe'e did you get it?"

I glanced at it and nodded, understanding:

"It was hanging from a cane-reed roof. Is it yours?"

"My unc-cle's," he pointed a finger at the piece of clothing again. "See the initials?"

On the inside of the collar—now pointing outside, since I had turned the jacket inside out—I could see two faded letters written in pen. I hadn't paid much attention to those marks before because they hadn't looked like letters to me. Now that the stuttering young man pointed them out, I realized someone had marked this piece of outerwear as his own: H.H.

"H'isto H'istov," the bartender provided. "My unc-cle."

Illiterates!

"Is he a former military?" I asked, not really caring.

"He, my father, my grandfather,"

"Right."

"I se'ved fo' a while too, befo'e...," he trailed off with a distant look on his face.

"I'm glad the owner turned up," I nodded to the jacket. "You'll make sure he gets it, right?"

"Yes."

"Excellent! How much for the coffee and soda?"

The young man punched a few keys on the billing machine and handed me a receipt.

"That will be fou' t-twenty."

The café door squeaked open and officer Aleksieva stepped in through it. She headed straight for me. Apparently Zorro was a man true to his word and I was about to get punished for procrastinating. To be honest, I wouldn't mind getting cuffed by Aleksieva.

Just kidding!

I didn't get men and women who have sexual fantasies about law enforcement officers. All my experiences involving the police had been unpleasant; not once had I been tempted to see the good side of police officers, let alone indulge in sexual objectification where policewomen were concerned! Even a beauty like Aleksieva didn't stir my passions in her police uniform, at least not while she was still in it. Mind you, she turned a lot of heads when she walked into the café and those male gazes lingered.

Instead of grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me out, Aleksieva leaned across the counter and struck up a conversation with Shooter as if I wasn't there.

"Martin has been arrested."

"I know" the young man said calmly. "I s-spoke to his siste'."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I t-thought you knew."

Aleksieva was all but leaning on my shoulder. Her long hair was tickling me and the heavy scent of her perfume invaded my nostrils. I politely excused myself and went to the restroom. Neither of them spared me a glance.

I had always wondered about the tourist business on the Black Sea coastline and resorts elsewhere in Bulgaria. Tourism services are a good way to make money, they are quick cash. Besides, tourists help improve service quality all the time, mostly by griping about things. So Bulgarian resorts should have been getting swankier and swankier with every passing year. But that wasn't the case. Investors constantly pinched pennies, which resulted in curiosities like four-star hotels providing guests with cheap pine beds for their night's rest. Suites pampering occupants with a Jacuzzi, silk sheets... and a TV screen the size of a credit card. Restaurants with dishes for up to fifty bucks on the menu and cigarette holes burned through the tablecloths. A smorgasbord of absurdities. And it all came down to cutting corners.

This same stingy mentality pushed local entrepreneurs to novel construction techniques. I was looking at a prime example in the restroom, which had obviously been built at a later stage than the café, quite sloppily too. The walls were made of drywall panels through which I could hear the sound from the TV pretty clearly. I was convinced that all the patrons of the café had heard me flushing the toilet. Washing my hands, I heard the name Martin again and realized that I could listen in on the conversation between Aleksieva and Shooter.

I turned off the faucet and concentrated on what they were saying.

"I looked exactly where Martin told me to," Aleksieva said, not even bothering to lower her voice to a whisper. "It wasn't there."

"T-that's impossible. I pe'sonally put it the'e."

"It's gone. There's more. The money is gone too."

"What money?"

"The organization's entire cache of cash."

"How much?"

"Todor..."

"Yes?"

"If it was you, you have to give it back."

"What a'e you talking about? Ch'istina, I'm not..."

"You know that Martin will get out sooner or later. It's a matter of time before he gets his hands on you."

"Are you not listening to me? It wasn't me!"

Anger must somehow override speech impediments because this was the first time I had heard the Shooter speak without stuttering or dropping his Rs.

"It couldn't have been anyone else. Martin warned me that you might have gone back to the car shop, and he was right."

"I haven't been back and I haven't taken anything. I'm loyal and will be till the end. You may want to remind your boyfriend that I've sworn an oath."

"Cut the crap!"

Now that was a stunning development. Martin and Aleksieva were a couple?! Then again, maybe it shouldn't have been shocking to me. I gave up trying to make sense of love years ago when Kim and Kanye got together.

"You have until the evening to bring me the money and... the other thing," Aleksieva paused meaningfully. "Or there'll be hell to pay."

"How am I supposed to give them to you when I don't have them?" Shooter barked and then immediately lowered his voice. "This is crazy!"

"I don't know. Figure it out."

That was enough eavesdropping for one day. I exited the restroom and returned to my chair. In the process, I glimpsed Aleksieva holding the same keychain as the one Daniel Slavov had been fiddling with. The same black cat. It probably held the key to the police station armory.

I had spent a half hour in the café already and there was no sign of Veronica. I was going to give her five more minutes. I picked out several of the larger coins still jingling in my pocket and paid my bill. That put an end to the conversation between Christina Aleksieva and Shooter.

"Hell of a chick," I said as I watched her leave the café.

"Yeah, right!" the young man scoffed. "Viper!"

"Just like every other beautiful woman," I didn't hesitate to generalize. "Keep the change."

Shooter mumbled something that sounded like thanks and got down to washing the used cups and ashtrays the waitress had piled on the counter. As he was turning away from me, I caught a glimpse of a badly done neck tattoo of Vasil Levski under his shirt collar.

I tried to imagine this poor sap, who couldn't be more than thirty, shooting the Arab terrorists in the dark. Pop-pop-pop... six measured cracks, four targets down. Several enraged members of the police brass, one patriot behind bars, dozens of questions awaiting answers, seventy kilometers to Burgas, one schmuck with freshly sheared head—that was the run-down.

I finished my club soda, got up and left.

### 20.

Getting back to the car shop wasn't hard. I asked a taxi driver about Studio Off-Road and he gave me directions. I headed north out of town and in about three-four kilometers I spotted the billboard at the pull-off where the black BMW had waited for me last night. I turned left onto the narrow paved road winding toward the slopes of Mount Strandzha. The road looked even narrower in broad daylight.

The damages to the car shop seemed less devastating too. One could have even been fooled that the façade had been roughened up on purpose to give it an edgier look more suited to the business operations here. Everything was pretty much as I remembered it from last night, except that the gate was closed this time. Someone had been here after me, and that someone was probably Aleksieva. I would have expected to see mechanics or at least a security guard, but there was no one. There was no sign of human presence outside. No sounds were coming from the inside.

I snuck inside the car shop and held my breath on the off chance that all that silence was because of a lunch break.

But no. I was truly alone.

Why was I here?

Because someone had to foot the bill.

***

In the words of the average Cosmopolitan reader, I had been used, humiliated and tossed aside. I had been made to serve as a pawn in the game of the big shots in this town. That was all well and good, but even extras get paid, let alone supporting actors like me.

I didn't want all that money. I just wanted what was owed to me: a sum that would compensate me for my burned backpack and sleeping bag, cover the cost of getting a new ID issued and buy me a bus ticket to Sofia, that last one was a penalty for Burgas people's refusal to pick up hitchhikers. No more than five hundred bucks in total. That amount wasn't going to fix my bad mood, but it was at least going to help me put the memory of Izgrev behind faster.

I walked out to the sunlit parking lot and took another look around before I squatted in front of the doghouse. I pulled back the blanket and the stacks of bills winked at me from underneath the plastic bag, just as I had left them. For some reason, large sums of cash always seem cheeky to me. I counted out ten bills of fifty and didn't even touch the rest. I moved to put the cash in my pants pocket, but my inner voice cautioned that my troubles in Izgrev might not be over. So I listened to it and decided to be more careful in case I got searched. My shoes were the only good hiding place I could come up with.

I sat on the ramp sloping up to the entrance, took off my right shoe and took out the insole. No one would ever think to look for bills under it.

Before hiding the money, I turned the shoe upside down and tapped it several times to remove any sand, shells, fuzz, or whatever else might have gotten in there. Something black fell out along with the other stuff. At first, I took it for a part of the shoe, but it was too shiny and plasticy for that purpose. It resembled a tiny key fob or a lighter. I took a look inside the shoe and saw that a well in the shape of the black object had been cut out in the sole where the heel was.

Hmm!

What the hell was that?

I was sure it wasn't a key fob or a lighter. I twisted and turned the object and a golden chip the size of my pinkie nail fell out. Now that I recognized. It was a SIM card.

Welp.

That last one jogged my memory. Whelp!

I'd seen this gadget on the collar of a German shepherd guarding a home where I worked as a gardener last spring. It was a tracking device, in case the dog got lost, strayed too far from the house and couldn't find its way back.

This little thing was for tracking dogs. Or people used as bait.

Well, would you look at that, as Daniel Slavov liked to say.

There was a tracker in my shoe!

So these things actually happened in real life, huh!

Who could have put it there? Mentally, I ran through the past few hours, trying to think of moments when I hadn't had my shoes on. I came out with the lighthouse episode when I hung upside down, suspended by chains. I was barefoot then, but later, when I regained consciousness on the pier, I had my shoes on. I even remembered being touched by the thoughtfulness someone had shown tying the laces.

Bastards!

After a beat, I found it amusing. I laughed out loud picturing their serious faces as they were implanting the tracker and testing it—as if they were going to follow some special agent from a foreign military intelligence or at the very least the prime minister of the nation.

The stupid bastards!

That explained why they always found me so easily.

It also meant they would be hauling ass over here any minute now.

My first impulse was to smash the tracking device. On its heels came the idea to flush it down the toilet. Or strap it to the back of a fox. I imagined Biceps and Triceps running all day through sparse oak forests, thinking they were going to get their hands on me.

I did neither of those things. This time the element of surprise was on my side.

I put the insole back in, put my shoe on and threw the tracker in the dumpster. I went back into the building and lurked near the restroom door. But not before I picked up a bunch of wrenches and screwdrivers. Making the same mistake twice is unforgivable, no matter how crappy your life is.

Well, boys, come on over.

I didn't have to wait long. Hardly a minute had past when a car screeched to a stop on the parking lot outside. I heard only one door open and close, which meant I was about to have a close encounter with only one thug. I sure hoped that was Biceps.

But it wasn't Biceps.

It was Shooter.

From my hiding place, I watched him walk into the car shop and over to the pit. He peeked in, scratched his head and disappeared from my field of vision for a moment before he returned with a putty knife in one hand and went down the steep concrete steps of the pit. I heard him talking to himself and cursing profusely. Interesting—his stutter had disappeared again. Perhaps, as with any speech impediment, his was pronounced only in the presence of other people. Maybe the young man just got tense when there was someone around.

Shooter didn't find what he was looking for and emerged from the pit. He looked around all hopeful, as if the gun could have somehow relocated itself and would jump out of somewhere any second now. Nothing of the sort happened.

The young patriot definitely didn't know anything about the money because he didn't so much as glance at the humanoid stove where I'd found it. He chucked the putty knife he'd used to dig around in the pit mud and cursed again.

While Shooter was helplessly wandering about the car shop, another car parked outside and that one unloaded three passengers. I briefly considered warning him that the thugs were coming, but I no longer pretended to know the configuration of alliances and warring camps in this town, so I kept silent.

Biceps, Triceps and Whey were surprised to see Shooter. Not enough to lose their composure, of course. They seized him and sat him down with his hands bound with a zip tie behind his back.

"Careful, don't cut yourself," Biceps said and moved the young man a meter to the side. Behind the spot where Shooter had been sitting, the sheet-metal wall was dented and distorted. Probably the result of a stray bullet during last night's gunfight.

The beefy fellas scanned the area, then split up to search for their main target. They had come to the car shop for me, alerted by the tracking devise that their prey was still walking around Izgrev and its surrounding area. Shooter was nothing but a bonus.

We would have probably played that game of hide and seek for a while, had I not jumped out of my sanctuary. I was hell bent on causing serious bodily injury. Unfortunately, the first to face me was Triceps—the guy with the perpetually moved expression and eyebrows pinned high on his forehead. I swung the wrench at him, but didn't have the heart to go all the way through with the motion and bash his head. The look in his eyes was so doltish that I would have found it hard to throw as much as a cotton ball at him. It felt as cruel as stealing pocket money from a first-grader. We locked eyes for a suspenseful moment before the thug exclaimed a hearty Yee-hawwww! that made my ears ring. The other two heavyweights rushed to us immediately and disarmed me at the expense of two cuts and one stab wound—all inflicted on Biceps.

He barely felt any of it. The blood smeared on his shirt and jeans seemed to bother him more than the actual wounds. But he made no move to get me back.

The next minute, I was sitting beside Shooter, trying my best to stay optimistic.

### 21.

"What are you doing here, little birds?" Whey was chewing gum and watching us from behind sunglasses.

"You c-can't just walk in here," Shooter said, trying to be a tough guy. "This is p'ivate p'ope'ty."

"Is t-that so?" Whey mocked him. "Let's get the deed on my name, then, why don't we?"

The other two thugs sniggered.

"We came to clean up the place," I chimed in once they had quieted down. "Some scumbags sprayed the car shop with bullets last night."

Biceps's neck had this bulging-tendons thing going again, just like in the lighthouse. Whey glanced at me, but his attention was squarely focused on Shooter.

"Todor... How many years has it been since you came back to Izgrev?"

The young man stared at the tips of his shoes, eyes unblinking.

"Three," Whey answered his own question. "Almost four."

It occurred to me that the two were probably the same age. Maybe they even sat next to each other in school. Then life set them on different paths.

"Four years and you still haven't gotten it into your head that you have to ask me first before you do anything?"

"Go to h-hell, dumbass!"

"R-Roger that!" the beefy guy made fun of him again. "I'm setting off straight to hell. Whatever it takes to make you happy!"

The underground boss walked out, leaving Biceps and Triceps to guard us. I could tease and aggravate them, but that didn't sound like much fun. Besides, too many car components around. An unstable fella like Biceps could be tempted to stick one in my skull.

"We can try to overpower them, what do you say?" I whispered to Shooter. "They're not that strong."

"OK," he returned. "How?"

"We'll improvise."

"All 'ight."

Shooter leaned over to me sideways and whispered:

"How do you know about last night?"

"I spent the night tied to a chair in this place."

Shooter pulled back and turned to scrutinize me carefully like I was some exotic creature.

"You're that guy, the witness!"

"Hey, what's with all the chattering?" Biceps slammed his palm on the sheet-metal wall. "Shut up!"

"Talking about your mother," I took a jab at him again. "Nothing serious."

He hurled what looked like a plastic impeller at me, but it curved and missed the mark badly.

"You're not allowed to talk."

I waited for him to simmer down and resumed my conversation with Shooter:

"What kind of a person is Martin?"

"Ma'tin is a g'eat Bulgarian. Only he c-can fix Izgrev."

"What do you mean?"

"Wheatea' and Slavov 'un this t-town. They do whateve' they want."

"Who's this Wheatear?"

"The guy with the sunglasses."

Wheatear? Wheatear?!

Unreal!

Nicknaming the brawny degenerate roaming the local seaside after a tiny bird? Was there a moniker that suited him less? I was prepared for Whale or Dolphin or even Shark, but Wheatear... As far as moronic thug nicknames went, this one took the cake. Surprisingly enough, I had been, at least phonetically, pretty close with my guess—Whey. My version had a nicer ring to it, more manly, and it suited him better. To my ear, Wheatear sounded punier. Fancier, but punier.

I decided to keep calling him Whey.

"They fancy themselves unt-touchable."

"That's everywhere, though."

"Ma'tin will t-take ca'e of them."

"How? By beating them up one by one?"

"No."

"He'll ask them to leave?"

"No! He is the pa'ty chai'man. We'll 'un for election again and this t-time we'll win."

Wow!

"We'll clean up Izgrev, get 'id of all the t-t'ash!"

I didn't doubt it for a second!

I was starting to get a clearer picture of Martin. He was an elegant young man, well-mannered, well-educated and probably well off. Owned a car shop, maybe even a hotel somewhere in town. He was probably in the gym three times a week, went kitesurfing off the British coast in the summer and skiing in Austria during the winter. The rest of his time he would spend bored by life in the small town, too modest in scale for someone with his free spirit and flare. He struck me as a show-off, but that likely worked to his advantage around these parts. Besides, his idea seemed good, at least on the surface. What could be more of a noble cause than cleaning up your hometown from corrupt cops and half-witted thugs?

Unfortunately, that was practically impossible.

Tourist towns and villages in Bulgaria would always be controlled by the mafia and corrupt politicians and policemen. Simply because they were hubs for quick profit, and quick profit attracts scum like turd attracts flies.

"Did you 'eally see me sh-shoot the Arabs?"

"No, Todor. I have no idea how that rumor started. At that time I was out for the count on a bench under a metal shed near the vineyards south of Izgrev."

Shooter was nodding distractedly. As if he was gazing into the distant future where he could see his town cleaned up, sacred.

"Too bad! You should've s-seen them c-croak."

His eyes had gone a bit glassy and quite disturbing, with this crazy glint flashing in them.

***

Whey came back all smiles. He was on the phone and nodding, as if the person on the other side of the line could see him. He signaled something to Biceps and the burly fella brought him a plastic chair from somewhere. Whey motioned for him to put it in front of us two captives and sat down without taking the phone off his ear. After a while, he held the phone out in front of his mouth, with the screen facing us, and said loudly:

"The connection is poor, Daniel, could you repeat that?"

"I'm telling you that Todor killed the Arabs," Zorro's voice came pretty clearly from the small phone. "Martin ratted on him."

"What did he say exactly?"

"That they hadn't planned on killing the Arabs, but Todor flipped the commando switch and started shooting at random. That it was a miracle he didn't kill any of his own guys."

"Why did he kill the Arabs?"

"Because he is a wacko. A lunatic, a psychopath—that's what Martin said."

Whey took of his sunglasses and stared at Shooter, grinning from ear to ear.

"What else did Marin say?"

"That if we got rid of Todor, we would be doing everyone a favor."

"What do you mean get rid of him?"

"You know what I mean."

"And the other one? What should we do with him?"

"We've already discussed this."

Well how about Martin, the great patriot! He was sacrificing his right-hand man, his loyal follower and friend. All because he suspected Shooter of stealing the money and the murder weapon, without having a shred of evidence. Martin hadn't bothered to make sure of his guilt. He had convinced himself of it and nothing could change his mind. Especially after several hours in the holding cell or wherever they kept him.

I felt sorry for Shooter.

He was devoted to the cause. Wholeheartedly believed that Izgrev would become this pure and sacred town. He believed this in the same way children believe in Santa Claus. Unlike him, though, somewhere between the ages of six and ten kids normally wise up. Todor was yet to wise up to the fact that behind his pompous rhetoric Martin was nothing but a small-town con artist. Running for mayor, pledging to clean up the trash, what a load of crap! A regular charlatan and a coward. So much for the flare of the free-spirited and noble Martin.

But the fate of Shooter was on me too. I hated the idea of someone else suffering because of me. Martin though that Todor had stolen the money and the murder weapon, when that was all me. Todor was being unfairly accused and arbitrarily punished. What could I do? Tell Zorro don't listen to Martin, I know where the gun is, I know where the money is. Leave Todor alone, I'm your guy? Yeah, right.

The best I could do for Todor was help him escape. Like, now.

"Mr. Slavov, you're on speakerphone," I yelled. "We hear you perfectly fine."

Whey pulled the phone back, as if to protect it. Daniel Slavov was silent for a second. Then the cursing started. We heard something like turn the speakerphone off right now, you moron, only dressed in much more colorful language. Whey didn't back down and held up his end of the screaming match, leaving the speakerphone on the entire time. He got so hot that the momentum of his wild gesticulating tipped the plastic chair backwards and he crashed to the floor. Biceps rushed to help him up.

I nudged Shooter and he got the hint.

I stretched my right leg out and kicked Biceps in the hip as hard as I could—right where his gaudy flowery shirt was darkest with dried blood. The beefy guy howled in pain and swung at me in retaliation, only to have his face collide with my left leg.

Triceps registered the commotion, snapped out of his perpetual state of nirvana and scrambled to help his buddies. In the kerfuffle Shooter crawled a step to the side and cut the zip tie shackling his wrists on the jagged sheet metal. He got to his feet and loped across the car shop like an antelope. He was gone in a blink of an eye.

"Go after him, fool!" Whey roared. "Forget about me and go!"

Biceps released his boss's elbow and took off after his prey. He had a pronounced limp, which brought me some satisfaction. The other strapping fella circled his boss a few times, then finally picked a leverage point, exerted himself and somehow managed to pull Whey up. The two joined the Shooter chase at a visibly slower pace. Triceps hesitated and pointed at me, but his boss just straightened his sunglasses and waved dismissively.

"We'll deal with that guy later. At least he can't run away from us."

Their hurried footsteps echoed in the car shop, then died away.

I scooted over to the same part of the wall where the sheet metal was distorted and cut my zip tie on it too. It took me much longer compared to Todor, though.

I cracked the door open, gingerly stepped outside and cautiously surveyed the field. There was no sign of Shooter or his pursuers. I had the feeling I would never see him again—either he would get away and leave Izgrev in the rearview mirror or the mobsters would catch him and hand him over. I was crossing my fingers for the former.

Apropos, they wouldn't hand him over to the authorities for proper investigation, arrest, interrogation and statements. Todot would simply disappear, as Whey had so generously explained to me during our first meeting. He would be scapegoated. True, he had shot the four Arabs. But if you really thought about this, he wasn't the one who killed them. They were victims of a corruption-riddled system involving police officers, mobsters, border guards, politicians in organized crime's pocket, security services, information leaks, greed, incompetence, etc. Todor had simply pulled the trigger.

Was I making excuses for him?

Yes. The guy had grown on me. I even pitied him. He had this pure and sacred belief in the idea of a better hometown, and his idol, his closest person, had turned out to be a sleazebag.

Besides, Shooter reminded me a bit of myself.

### 22.

I decided to stay away from the paved road this time. With that sorry tracking device no longer on me, it was going to be difficult for them to find me, as long as I laid low. So I chose the forest. A grubby rag of low, gray clouds blotted out the sun. It looked like it might rain before nightfall. I had to find shelter before then—a lean-to, a pavilion, an abandoned cabin, something. I could even stumble upon a hunting lodge. It wasn't like it hadn't happened to me before.

It was a sparse forest of young oak trees—their trunks were slanted and no wider than the span of my hand. There were hardly any bushes, which helped with visibility and made hiding a challenge. I had to put at least half a kilometer between me and the car shop to make sure that no one standing there could spot me among the skinny trees.

At the same time, I didn't like the prospect of making my way into the deep recesses of Mount Strandzha. I could run into wild boars, jackals, or wolves. Or frozen geese stuck in ice.

The geese thing comes from a story I heard from renowned buffoon Bobi Mikov. One winter day he went to take photos of wild animals in Strandzha. A photographic safari or whatever that's called. His tour guide was a local hunter who drove a Lada Niva and knew the Strandzha wildlife and its habitat like the back of his hand. So there they were, riding down the dirt roads, keeping their eyes peeled. But there were no wild animals to be found. Which shouldn't have been a surprise considering all the noise a Lada Niva makes. Finally, they caught sight of a small lake with several swans. They pulled to a stop and Bobi started to creep toward the edge of the lake, hunting for a good photo. The birds didn't fly away, so he got even closer. It wasn't until he was just ten paces away that he realized—those were wild geese, not swans. The lake had frozen over, trapping the legs of the large birds.

Bobi was already mulling ways to break the ice and free the geese when the hunter whistled to get his attention, grabbed a well-sharpened scythe from the trunk and, as Bobi Mikov described it to me, mowed a bunch of geese.

All joking aside, I wouldn't find coming face-to-face with wild boars or wolves remotely funny. This was why I had to keep as close to civilization as possible. I had no luck finding a lean-to or a pavilion or an abandoned cabin. The only thing that even slightly resembled shelter was a narrow wooden hunting hide perched high on a somewhat sturdier oak on the edge of a muddy clearing. It looked like a tree house, only it was more haphazardly put together and could accommodate no more than two people, in a sitting or squatting position. Lying down was out of the question—even if I curled up in a ball, I would still be very uncomfortable in this cramped space. But at least the hide had a roof and provided shelter from the wind.

The hunters who used it probably brought a ladder every time. For me, there was no other way to get to the hide than climbing the tree trunk like a monkey. I hadn't done that in a while so I almost fell twice. I got several wholes in my pants and scrapes on my palms for my efforts, but I reached the hide. If nothing else, I was safe from the nocturnal inhabitants of the forest. Which was cold comfort. Speaking of which, I was still wearing Martin's shirt and pants. They were fine for a nightclub, but they were no good to me in the growing dark of the forest. I was already shivering and it wasn't even four o'clock in the afternoon by my estimation. What was it going be like at four in the morning? Maybe I had been too quick to leave the car shop and hadn't thought this through. I could've looked for something warmer to wear—overalls or a jacket. I remembered the parachute I had found last night after showering. I had put it back without giving it a second thought and now I could only dream of something that warm.

Have you ever slept in a forest? And I don't mean a nice cabin in the Rhodope Mountains or a guest house in Mount Vitosha. No, I mean smack dab in the heart of a forest.

It is always a damp place and sometimes it is damp and disgusting. A smell of rotting stumps, mushrooms and mildew drifts up from the fallen leaves, things constantly fall from the trees—twigs, fragments of bark, leaves, fir cones, oak apples... In the summer, forests swarm with all sorts of insects and arthropods, including mosquitoes, earwigs, spiders and ants. All my forest experiences had been cold in the winter and rainy in the spring and fall. But what had really kept me awake at night were the noises.

I'm not faint of heart and I don't scare easily, nor do I have an overactive imagination. But forest noises can freak out even the coldest flat-liner in just one night. Pretty quickly, you start to think you're hearing sounds of something roaming about, snapping dry twigs and grunting or growling. The wind blows and you think you detect howling or human speech amid the creak of branches. Some small creature nibbles on a fir cone and you mistake the sound for chattering teeth. A couple of fir-cone flakes pepper the rotting leaves and you think someone is throwing small stones.

Your brain can provide a logical and usually innocuous explanation for any forest sound. The trick is to keep your composure and let your synapses fire properly.

Normally, I don't sleep a wink.

I had strained to decipher all sorts of crazy noises in my forest adventures, but the ultimate winner was a frog which had hopped straight into an empty bag of chips left by tourists. The frog had been desperately thrashing around in the bag, tracing a circle with it on a meadow. Two steps away from me.

Now I considered climbing down and gathering wood before darkness fell. I could stay on the ground and start an open fire. The flames would keep me warm, until I stopped stoking them to get some sleep, and any unwanted beasts away. But they would also be like putting up a neon sign "Here I am" for anyone who might be looking for me. From what I had come to learn about the local thugs, it would take them about fifteen minutes to realize that I had found the tracker and taken it out of my shoe. It would take them another ten minutes to grasp the fact that I had gotten away from them and about a minute to recognize that their chances of finding me were close to zero.

Honestly, I didn't see them traipsing through the forest to look for me.

Still, I wasn't willing to risk it.

Some illiterate had scribbled his motto on the hunting hide boards in charcoal: no booze, no joy. I had heard it from drunkards in various corners of Bulgaria. Now I found perverse pleasure in applying it to my situation—my spirits were low and trending toward non-existent as the temperature plummeted so no, definitely no joy here.

I curled up on the hard floor of the tiny hide and tried to think of all the boiling hot summer days I had in my memory bank. I got mad all over again that my sleeping bag was lost in that campfire on Lozenets beach. It had served me well for many nights. It kept me warm in the winter, and didn't make me sweat in the summer. And it would feel as comfortable as a memory-foam mattress at a four-star hotel right about now.

What was done was done.

I would get through the night somehow.

***

I had no chance of making it through the night.

At first, it was pleasantly chilly, then it turned bearably cold before it became unbearably so. What started as slight shivering escalated into uncontrollable at some point during the night. I was shaking all over, my extremities had become stiff, my teeth were chattering as loudly as sheep bells on a traditional Bulgarian mummer in a dancing frenzy. I was assaulted by a headache.

For the first hour or two I was trying to convince myself that I would get used to it. I didn't, you just don't get used to cold. Then I was honest with myself about never getting used to it, but kept thinking I will suffer through it. Finally, I had to concede that I was fooling myself there too.

I started berating myself. What came over me? Why did I decide to go ahead and play the elf? Maybe it was time to come to terms with the fact that some feats of strength were harder and more unpleasant at forty-three than at twenty. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I climbed down the tree trunk, picking up more scrapes.

A hunter once told me that hides were always made so that you could see the animal without the animal seeing you. I didn't know how reliable of a source he was, but if what he'd said was true, my hinting hide had to be on the south side of the muddy clearing. That way, when the sun—or the moon—was up, it would light the clearing from behind the hide. Every single animal that stepped out on the clearing would be completely visible and at the same time unable to see the hunter because it would be looking into the sun.

I stood with my back to the hide, which meant that Mount Strandzha was to my left and civilization was to my right. I headed east toward civilization. If I didn't find a heat source soon, I was going to meet my creator. After all I had been through, it would be pathetic to freeze to death. Then again, I didn't know that there was a good way to die.

***

The only sources of heat that my sluggish imagination could conjure up were located in Izgrev. Chilled to the marrow, I struggled to pull up clear images from my memory beyond the white lights of the town's by-now-notorious gas station. I had to drag myself there before hypothermia took me down.

In the meantime, I could always chance upon a campfire that someone had started and abandoned on the side of the road.

Joking!

I was in no mood to joke, though. All my inner voices were harmonizing like a somber Greek chorus, telling me to stay away from Izgrev. Nothing good awaited me there. But the freezing cold had sapped my energy to the point I couldn't fight its allure. The image of the brightly lit interior of the gas station—cozy, warm, with the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the air—was calling me and I was hunting for it through the forest like a zombie on the scent of human flesh. It wasn't premonition, I knew for a fact that nothing but trouble awaited me in Izgrev, but I was powerless against the overwhelming need to get warm. Cold was a bad adviser.

As a kid, I saw this sci-fi movie where one of the characters got caught in a blizzard and almost froze to death in the snow. To protect him from the cold, his friend killed the large fantastical creature which had carried him there and stuffed the freezing man in the carcass—he cut the belly of the beast open in between, causing a profusion of intestines and organs to spill out. At the time, the scene seemed over-the-top unrealistic to me.

I felt differently about it as I was stumbling through the forest, shaking uncontrollably. Right now, I would crawl into the reeking innards of a dead cow if they were warm.

### 23.

Hunting hides are always built on the south side of clearings. My tiny wooden shelter was supposed to be on the southernmost point of the clearing. It wasn't until much later that it dawned on me: in a forest of young trees the hunters had simply picked the one sturdy tree available. The other oaks were just not big enough to bear the load of the hide plus two people in it. The hunters couldn't have cared less on what side of the clearing the tree was. For the record, it was on the north side. But I only found this out much later.

After trotting for about twenty minutes, supposedly going east, I caught sight of light glimmering in the distance. Light meant heat, life and future. Nothing else mattered. I quickened my pace and soon emerged from the forest onto a paved road. It curved gently through a wide stretch of open space. Instead of the first houses on the outskirts of Izgrev, the sight that greeted me was of wooden bungalows. A satellite dish was perched on the roof of one, a closed beach umbrella was standing sentry outside the next. It looked like one of those old camping sites.

I shivered from the cold and got closer.

I had no idea whether the camping site was used in the winter and how, but someone clearly needed quite a lot of wood for heating. Timber was piled neatly in massive mounds on the glade. They were mammoth, rising above the bungalows. From the opposite end of the camp, where most of the lights were, came the whir of trucks. Correction, it wasn't just trucks—a heavy machine was loading the timber onto their flatbeds. Several silhouettes were walking around, barking orders. One of them crossed the headlight beams of the machine, allowing me to see the camouflage design of his clothes.

Darn it!

The chances of me stumbling upon a secret NATO training exercise were miniscule. So this had to be a logging site. And since it was a logging site buzzing with activity in the dead of night, it was reasonable to assume that said activity wasn't altogether legal. Which meant that the people laboring to load the logs wouldn't appreciate company. In other words, I had hit a snag.

A snag, get it?

If I still had the camouflage jacket, it would have come in handy. Then again, if I'd had it on all along, I wouldn't have been so cold and felt the need to come all the way here.

Two people emerged from the teeming logging site and headed toward me. They couldn't have seen me because I had taken cover around the corner of a bungalow. So I didn't think they were coming for me. Plus, they didn't look like a pair of security guards with a trained dog. My hope was they were just two drivers taking a break to pee or have a smoke somewhere more quiet.

They weren't drivers, though. Both wore civilian clothes and obviously had other intentions than peeing or smoking because they went straight into my bungalow and turned on the light. I crept to the other side of the building so I can watch them through a window. The window was pasted with newspaper all over, but I managed to find a crack to spy through. The two men were sitting at a small table, also covered in newspaper. One of them was writing something down in a notebook. The other was laying out bills on the table. They weren't talking and even if they were I couldn't hear them because the noise from the trucks and the loading machine was drowning out all other sounds. The notebook guy finished writing and showed his work to the money guy, then slowly counted the bills two at a time—presumably that made it easier for him.

The deal was done.

The money and the notebook vanished from the table and I saw the two men shake hands. The notebook guy—apparently playing the accountant—stood up and I glimpsed his face through the crack in the newspaper.

Zachary.

It was Zachary, the policeman.

The old dog of the Izgrev police department.

Did that mean that Zachary was running the local illegal logging business? No. People like him don't run anything. He was just here to collect the monthly payment due—the cost for the police turning a blind eye, the ticket to carrying out clandestine operations undisturbed at night, the price for the clearcutting license.

Who was the other guy?

I would bet my tattered pants that it was the local forest ranger. Unless I'd just slandered the poor official and he was lying on the floor of another bungalow all tied up in hemp rope for standing up against the whole operation and actually caring about the forest.

Corrupt bastards!

Izgrev might be nothing more than a small town on the fringes of the country—heaven on earth—but it was still a microcosm of Mother Bulgaria—in all its breathtaking beauty and glory .

The two walked out, turning off the light on their way out. Their footsteps quickly faded into the cacophony of machines whirring and nocturnal workers shouting.

No matter how cold I was I couldn't risk getting tangled up in a situation with this crowd. I made a detour around the camping site through the forest and re-emerged onto the paved road about a kilometer further down. Still fully convinced that I was walking east.

So my thinking was that the road should either lead directly to Izgrev or connect with the main road to Burgas. Instead, in about twenty minutes of walking, it ended at the town's landfill.

There was a mountainous pile of waste that was liable to get on maps of Bulgaria as a new, anthropogenic geological formation. I had only seen this type of formidable garbage piles once before, years ago near an out-of-the-way village. But nothing could compare to the vile smell that was emanating from this one. I could only imagine what the stench was like in the summer.

Far beyond the mountain of waste, the softly curved ridges of the real mountain were straining toward the cloudy sky in the dark of night. But if that was Mount Strandzha before me, then the sea was in the opposite direction.

It finally hit me that I had been moving west the entire time.

So much for hunters' theories!

When the cold drives your actions, getting disheartened at the first major obstacle is inevitable. I could now see why an alpinist would succumb to hypothermia and simply let go. It must seem so tempting to just lie down and drift into a peaceful, painless last sleep in the comforting embrace of an icy landscape... I was a hair's breadth away from crawling into a bed of trash and giving myself up to the cold. I wanted to bawl like a kid left without a Christmas present. I had been walking for over an hour, the bitter cold clawing at me every step of the way. What had kept me going was the mirage of the cozy gas station.

Now just the thought that I was at least an hour's walk away from town made me even colder. Not to mention that I had to bypass those mounds of felled oaks again.

I mustered all the strength I had left, turned around and went back the way I had come.

### 24.

I had been to the gas station so many times over the past forty-eight hours that the casual observer might have been forgiven for thinking I worked there. Just as I might have been forgiven for thinking that Veronica worked at the cash register around the clock.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. I had surprised her once more. "You again?"

"Hello, Veronica!" I was trying to enunciate clearly, but my jaw was stiff with cold. "May I have a cup of coffee?"

I couldn't quite hear myself talking, seeing as my ears had turned into icicles, but I must have sounded much like Shooter, butchering words and dropping consonants.

From the hunting hide by that clearing to here, I had walked for two and a half hours, perhaps even longer, almost straight. I would have expected it to be past five in the morning, but the gas station clock showed twenty minutes to two. My hands still trembling, I pulled out a fifty from my shoe. Veronica took a look at the cash drawer and smiled.

"Don't you have change?"

"No."

"Let me buy you a coffee, then."

I put the money away. The trembling of my hands had subsided a bit. I was slowly thawing.

The very first sip of coffee filled me with baseless optimism. I was irrationally and gleefully convinced that the world would soon have its happy ending. The second sip warmed me, and the third fixed my speech.

"You're always coming and going..." Veronica wiped the countertop where the coffee cup had left a wet circle. "And each time you look different."

"What?"

"You've come to the gas station several times, and you don't even have a car."

Interesting observation. Zorro could use someone like her in his investigative unit. She would probably double the success rate of investigations all by herself.

"And why are you always working?" I countered.

"Excuse me?"

"Every time I come, it's your shift. Why are you constantly working?"

"Because I need the money."

"What do you need all this money for?"

For some reason, in my mind I saw her answering so I don't turn out like you. She would have been right on the mark, too. But Veronica only shrugged as she was washing the coffee machine filter and gave me a sly smile.

"We, young women, have serious expenses."

I studied her as much as I could without outright staring. No fillers in her lips, no silicone implants in her breasts. She hadn't plucked out her eyebrows to replace them with permanent makeup. Neither had she dyed or straightened her hair. She didn't even have fake eyelashes on. Didn't wear jewellery or lipstick or eyeliner, not even mascara. She just didn't have the look of a flighty magnet for thugs at all, so her expenses were not about beautification, skimpy clothes, hanging out in clubs or excursions to Dubai. What then? Was she paying the mortgage on a home, caring for a sick parent, or saving for college?

"I've been trying to give you something for three days," Veronica said and turned to rummage through her handbag on the cabinet behind her. "Here you go."

She held out a small item between her thumb and forefinger.

My ID card.

### 25.

I almost choked on my coffee, narrowly missed overturning the cup and spilling the last couple of sips. I reached and took my ID, then flipped it over, almost expecting it to turn out fake and have something weird like king of diamonds painted on the back.

"I found it that morning in the restroom," Veronica explained.

I was still blankly staring at the card, unable to make a sound.

"I kept it so I could return it to you in case we met, but the right moment never came until now."

Was I surprised?

More like stunned.

Shocked.

Absolutely floored.

I was trying to imagine how things might have panned out differently if I had known from the beginning that my ID card was in Veronica. I was also trying to collect my thoughts, but I was tired, chilled to the bone, sleep-deprived and just out of it.

"You found my ID that day?"

"Yes. I went to clean the restroom and saw it on the floor."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I wanted to tell you, but I had no idea how to find you. And later, something got in the way every time..."

"Great. Just perfect."

"Is something wrong?"

Was something wrong? Gee, let me think...

"No," I said simply.

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry. Thank you for keeping it safe and giving it back to me."

Veronica gave me a blank look. She had no way of knowing everything that had happened while I was looking for my ID card.

"Maybe I'm the one who should buy you a drink," I finally said, smiling. "Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you."

The word coffee triggered my memory.

"Yesterday, you asked me to wait for you in that café so you could bring me the ID card, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You never came. Why?"

"I did come. You weren't there, though."

"I was there."

"No, you weren't."

I thought back to that episode, as much as I was actually able to think in my current state. If she had truly come to the cafe, maybe her timing coincided with my lingering in the restroom to listen in on the conversation between Shooter and Aleksieva. So she missed me and concluded I had never gone to the spot in the first place.

"I had an extended visit to the restroom."

"Oh! So that's why I didn't see you. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm the one who's sorry. More than you know."

"All's well that ends well, right?"

Yuр, things reaaally turned out nicely. Couldn't have turned out any better.

"Thank you, Veronica. You're a good girl."

"And you're a good man."

"I wish I were," I smiled at her childlike honesty. "If you ever play Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and the question is 'What kind of a person Emil Milev is?', you'd better not choose 'B: A good man'."

That's when I noticed that the skin around one of her eyes was covered in a thick layer of foundation.

"What happened to your eye?"

Veronica reached for her face, but her hand stopped midair and stayed suspended there.

"Nothing serious."

But I had seen foundation applied to conceal bruises before. Some patterns of behavior in this world are replicated with distasteful consistency.

"Why do you let him do this to you, Veronica? Why do you let a moron like Biceps ruin your life?"

"Who?"

"Sorry, I meant Beeby. Beeby 'The Jackass'."

Veronica looked away.

"I told you the other day not to ask questions and just go on your way."

"Gladly, but the thugs aren't letting me leave."

"How so?"

"What's the name of this Beeby character anyway? His real name."

"Borislav."

I was finishing the last of my coffee when I had an epiphany.

"Veronica... Do your back-to-back shifts have something to do with this Borislav?"

"What do you mean?"

"What are you saving for?"

"The normal stuff."

"Give me an honest answer."

Veronica bit her lip and cast a furtive glance around, as if searching for someone to hand her a believable excuse.

"I work extra hours to pay back a loan."

"Where did the money come from? Did you borrow from a bank or a quick cash lender?"

She was avoiding eye contact.

"Veronica, look at me. Where did you go for the money?"

"Beeby loaned me the money."

"How much did he give you, how much does he want paid back?"

"Please, I really don't want to talk about this."

My mind flashed back to the money I had hidden in the doghouse outside the car shop. Sooner or later, one way or another, one of the nasty fellas I'd had to deal with in the past two days would get his hands on the cash. Besides, out of all the Izgrev residents I'd met, Veronica was the only regular person, the only one not involved in some shady business.

"I'm asking because I can help you repay the loan," I said.

"I'll manage on my own, but thank you."

From what I knew about small-town loan sharks, Veronica—even with all the extra hours she was working—probably barely scraped together enough to cover the interest rate. She had become a cash cow for Biceps. So why was he harassing her? Because he likely wanted to get a more special return on his investment from her. And she wasn't obliging him, yet. I couldn't help but appreciate her mental toughness. Many girls in her shoes would have bent to his will by now.

"Veronica, leave Izgrev the first chance you get."

"What? Why?"

"People like you have no future in this place. Every second you spend in this town is wasted."

"Where should I go?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. Build your life somewhere else. Izgrev can only bring you pain."

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"I'm sure that's not true. Today it's Borislav, tomorrow will be someone else. For the rest of your life you'll be mistreated by morons who are unworthy to breathe the same air as you. You've grown accustomed to this treatment, to the point you probably think everywhere else is like this, but I'm telling you it isn't. Go to a big city, move to Sofia or even London and you'll see that there's a different way. A place where you can have a peaceful, respectable life without constantly looking over your shoulder."

The big picture suddenly crystalized in my mind. The gas station was owned by the thugs. Who else's would it be? After all, the fuel business was for hard-core boys. So, Veronica worked for them, probably for next to nothing, and ran their operations, while also paying a portion of her measly salary to cover the monthly interest on her loan. To top it all, Biceps wanted to have her...

Yeah, that was the small town for you...

"Would you like more coffee?" Veronica was definitely trying to change the subject. "You look tired."

"No, thank you. I just need to catch up on some sleep."

I wanted to say more to her, but I knew it was pointless. I wished she didn't accept her situation so easily. A girl like her deserved a better future—to go to university, take different classes, find herself a real profession. She couldn't work as a cashier for the rest of her life. The world was full of wonders and none of them were there to be found in Izgrev. But she didn't realize that.

"You can take a nap in the break room in the back," she said and checked the clock. "No one is going to bother you until at least seven o'clock."

She was clearly done listening to the old man's lecturing. OK. As I had learned from personal experience, listening to some stranger enlightening you about just how crappy your life is and how you're not doing enough to change it is never pleasant. This wasn't the way to go. I had to let her figure things out for herself.

"The break room?"

"Well, it's not Melpomene, but..."

Melpomene. Her co-worker had mentioned it as well. Apparently, that was the fanciest hotel around.

"And you won't get into trouble for this?"

"No one will know."

"What about the security cameras?"

"I'll say that you threatened me."

"You don't seem like a girl who scares easily."

"The door opposite the restroom," Veronica said, handing me a key. "I'll come wake you up at seven."

I almost expected the key to be hanging on a black-cat keychain. It wasn't.

The break room turned out to be a closet slightly wider than the hunting hide. But at least it had a bed. Well, more like something between a pallet and a potato crate with a carpet flung on top of it. There were no sheets, no blanket, not even a pillow. Someone had piled cardboard boxes and bottles of mineral water onto the carpet. The space had effectively been converted into a storeroom stuffed with all sorts of stuff—a broom, a mop, a bucket, cleaning agents, more cardboard boxes, gloves and rubber boots... It wasn't particularly warm, but it was the nicest accommodation I has had in a while.

I cleared the bed, bunched together several pairs of gloves and was out as soon as my head touched that makeshift pillow.

### 26.

Raised voices pulled me out of my sleep.

It felt like I had gone out like a light seconds earlier, but it couldn't have been less than an hour. At first, I thought I was dreaming. Then I needed time to remember where I was. Finally, I recognized Veronica's voice in the commotion and darted out of the break room as if shot out of a cannon.

My right leg was numb, probably from lying on my side, so I was limping, but the moment I saw Biceps, blood trickling down his round face in rivulets, adrenalin kicked in. The big guy was howling and blindly slashing his arms through the air, trying to grab Veronica. She was doing a good job of evading his flailing arms and keeping a white-knuckled grip on a utility knife. She was backing away between the shelves, her eyes filled with fear. I saw sheer primal terror there. She caught sight of me, but that didn't seem to make her feel any better.

With his vision obscured by his own blood, Biceps bumped into one of the shelves, sending wafers, chocolate bars and candy flying off neat stacks.

"I'll beat the shit out of you!" Biceps roared. "I'll beat the shit out of you, you little slut!"

I frantically looked around for something that could double as weapon and help me spoil his plans. I wasn't fully awake so what I initially took for a hammer and an ax on one of the shelves turned out to be windshield wipers and snow brushes and ice scrapers. I needed something hard and heavy that would fit into my hand just right.

The big man was still bellowing threats. In a second, he was going to have Veronica trapped in a corner. I had to improvise.

I don't know about you, but I'm not much of a champagne person. Too weak and fizzy for my taste. Too low on alcohol and not tasty enough. The shape of the bottle, though, is perfect for certain purposes...

I had never swung a bottle of champagne at someone's head before. So I naturally expected the glass to shatter on impact. But that's not what happened. I hit Biceps three times with all my might, such as it was in my state. Righteous anger can provide a sudden boost of energy. The beefy guy crumpled to the floor, scattering more packaged food as his hands sought support on his way down. Quiet settled over the place. I put the champagne bottle on the countertop and went to check on Veronica.

She was shaking and crying. Carefully, I pulled the knife out of her hand, slid the blade back in and placed the weapon next to the coffee machine.

"Are you OK?" I searched her eyes to make sure she was responsive and then checked for open wounds. She wasn't bleeding.

"He... he...," she got out in between sobs. "Is he dead?"

"If only we were that lucky!" I let out a sigh. "What happened?"

"He came in, was trying to pick a fight." Veronica was trying and failing to hold back tears. "Then he flipped out and hit me. Twice. I... didn't mean to..."

"Relax, everything is OK."

I didn't believe my own words. That was one too many run-ins with Biceps for me. I had spilled some of his blood yesterday in the car shop, and now I knocked him out... He would come to at some point and seek revenge. To the bitter end. Sooner or later, Tricpes would get here, then Whey would bring the rest of the gang. I couldn't take on the entire Izgrev mafia.

I guided Veronica to sit down. Opened a bottle of water, sprinkled some on her face and helped her take a sip. She wasn't quite back to herself yet, although the initial shock had worn off. The hiccups and the sobs were gone, but her eyes were still overflowing with tears quietly streaming down her face. I left her and went to take care of the big guy.

Hauling his body to his car took about ten minutes. By the end, I was drenched in sweat and acutely aware of all my scrapes, bumps and bruises. I barely restrained myself from making an impersonation of the wounded thug's howling from earlier.

I found the key fob to the BMW in the jeans of Biceps and opened the trunk. Somehow I heaved his body up onto the edge of the trunk and pushed it the rest of the way in. I went back to the gas station and grabbed a bag of zip ties. I tied up the thug's hands and feet pretty securely and slammed the trunk lid closed.

Sweet dreams, Beeby!

Besides the key fob, his jeans pockets contained several small bills. I left them on the cash register and picked up a half-liter bottle of Coke.

"I'm going for a drive," I told Veronica. "You want me to give you a ride home?"

"No, no. I'm better."

"I hope now you understand what I was talking about earlier."

Veronica said nothing. She was staring dazedly into the distance, maybe finally grasping the mess she was in. Maybe it was beginning to dawn on her that with boys like Beeby things could only go one way—south. I took both of her hands in mine and looked into her eyes.

"Everything will be fine. Don't worry about it."

She nodded and I squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.

"Right. I'll see you later. I have some work..."

A loud pop made both of us jump, then duck.

Something hit the ceiling, then clattered on the floor. A hissing sound filled the room for a moment before quickly fading away.

The champagne cork had popped, letting the frothy beverage gush out of the bottle and onto the tiled floor imitating stone.

***

I took the mop from the closet and cleaned the champagne puddle. While I was at it, I wiped the drops of blood left by Biceps's face. It couldn't have been a bad wound because the drops were small. I cleaned the floor well and put most of the items littering the floor back on the shelves. But I left it to Veronica to return them to their proper places once she regained her composure. I just wanted to make everything seem normal, in case a client walked in. The clock said half past six. So I had slept for more than four hours after all.

The shirt I had put on back in the car shop already looked tattered. Tree climbing isn't for adults. I found two jackets in the break room and one of them was a good fit. It carried the gas station logo, but I would have worn it even if the stamp said GUCCI. That reminded me of a young man who many years ago used to sell GUCI and Versake socks at the Karnobat bus station, clearly knock-offs, and the memory made me smile.

I chugged the Coke and filled the empty bottle with gasoline. It was a good idea to have Plan B if Biceps proved to be a tough son-of-a-bitch.

I got in the BMW and drove off without a destination in mind. I could drive straight to Burgas, park the car in the industrial zone and walk away. Or I could keep my foot on the gas until the fuel gauge showed "empty". I could easily go to Sofia too. I didn't have a driver's license, didn't know where the vehicle registration was, but that didn't bother me. I doubted a traffic officer would dare to pull over this type of fancy SUV.

Instead, I steered the car, beat-up Borislav stuffed in the trunk and all, toward the north Izgrev beach. I needed a secluded place. Had unfinished business.

I parked where the pavement tapered off and the sand began. Probably hundreds of people passed through that spot every day during the summer. There were only two of us now—me and the beefy guy.

I turned on the radio and poked around in the glove box and the countless nooks, pockets and secret compartments in the leather interior. Nothing I managed to fish out was of any interest to me: a plastic bag full of pills (amphetamines if I had to guess), a gun with two additional clips (probably fired mostly in the air for entertainment at weddings and proms), a butterfly knife and a hunting knife (perhaps for intimidation), two boxes of condoms and two packs of cigarettes—one full, one empty.

I couldn't remember seeing any of the thugs smoking, so those were probably kept for male or female guests that the big fellas drove around the Izgrev country roads. Or maybe they were for Zorro. The cigarettes were slim and white, just like the ones the police chief preferred.

In the back of my mind, I had expected to find large plastic jars of whey protein powder or small folding cartons filled with blister packs of steroids or at least an energy bar, but no, nothing. Biceps clearly used the company car strictly for business.

I could sense him regaining consciousness back there in the trunk as the entire car rocked with his movement. I was waiting for his mind to clear a bit before we had our talk, I needed lucid answers. At some point, muffled cries and groaning reached my ears—sure sign that he was straining to get his arms and legs free from the zip ties. Wasn't happening. Having the strength to bench a hundred and eighty kilos wasn't going to get him far with his plastic chains, he needed instruments. Too bad his mind wasn't sharp as a blade.

I sat in the driver's seat, arms propped on the steering wheel, examining my ID. It was expiring next year. The photo showed a man about ten years younger and that much more naïve for the lack of those years of experience. What a different world it had been back then! At the time, the thought that there could be anything beyond it hadn't even crossed my mind. I knew one way of life and believed it to be not only the norm, but the only possibility. Just like Veronica. Only difference was, ten years ago I had been thirty-three, whereas Veronica couldn't be more than twenty-three. Youth gave her better odds of success and the sooner she faced reality, the farther she had the chance to ultimately get on the long road to the good side of the world.

A newscast came on the radio, which meant it was seven in the morning. The prime minister was apparently going on an official visit to Vietnam, while dozens of flights were being canceled at the Toronto Airport due to the investigation of unattended bags. Almost as an afterthought, it was mentioned that the case of the murdered refugees had been closed. My ears perked up and I turned the volume up.

"...which confirms one of the theories of the police. The suspect, Gavrail Gavrailov, who made a full confession a day earlier, took the team of investigators to the crime scene. The murder weapon used by the shooter is yet to be found. The case has been handed over to the Prosecutor's Office. Now to some sports news. The new owner of the football club in..."

I turned off the radio and stared at my ID card.

Gavrail Gavrailov, huh?

Stuff happens, they come after Garo.

What kind of a deal had he cut this time? How much money had he pocketed to take the blame? Would he be convicted and sent to jail or a document would pop up during the court proceedings attesting to his temporary insanity?

***

All this nonsense was nothing but a show put on for the benefit of radio listeners and TV viewers. After all, why spoil their day with the truth? Let people feel safe and happy with the news that the killer has been identified and arrested. It is a scientific fact that safe and happy people are more active shoppers.

But I knew the truth. I wasn't worried about Garo's fate—that was his problem. Anyone willing to sell himself should at least know his price. What concerned me was that even as news of the official arrest was being reported and statements were being made, a separate campaign to mete out punishment for the killings was taking place in the underworld.

The lone surviving Arab was surely angry he had been found out, kidnapped, held captive and forced to watch his buddies get shot dead. It occurred to me that if he was such a big deal, those guys might have been his bodyguards. The security service agents involved in the operation were likely angry about its failure. Daniel Slavov was definitely angry that the Arabs had been captured and killed under his nose. Martin was angry about his own arrest and the fact that neither the murder weapon nor the stashed money was in his possession. Whey was angry because I, and hopefully Shooter, had gotten away. Biceps was really angry because he was crammed in the trunk of his own SUV after getting thrashed and tied up.

This volcano of anger was bound to erupt and cause seismic shifts in the underworld. And the consequences, even though they wouldn't make news, were going to be, as always, unpleasant for everyone involved. I was among the involved.

The noises coming from the trunk were getting increasingly annoying. Time to ask Biceps some questions.

### 27.

I opened the trunk to discover a very different Biceps. He wasn't exactly scared, but he was pretty shaken-up. The look he gave me was puzzled and incredulous at once. One of his eyes was strangely half-closed, as if he had frozen in the process of winking. The healthy one had a weird look about it as well. Maybe this was his first encounter with unfamiliar reality. In his world, beefed-up, intellectually challenged, ballsy fellas ran the show and set the rules through violence and intimidation. He had just gotten a taste of what it was like to be on the losing side of this dynamic. The experience would do wonders for his personal growth.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore," I started, leaning closer to make sure he heard me loud and clear. "Don't do anything dumb and you'll be fine."

"You're a dead man!"

"I've heard this one before and here I am still alive and kicking."

"This time even Slavov won't help you."

What?

I was surprised to hear Daniel Slavov had played the role of my public defender. Well, would you look at that, as he liked to say. What else did I not know? Like, had Aleksieva studied agroecology in college?

"Borislav, you have no idea who I work for, so you better shut your mouth."

I didn't work for anyone, thank God. But this particular bluff always works with the type of people who believe in conspiracy theories, lizard people and secret plots.

"The last couple of days have been eventful," I said, leaning against the back fender and scanning the area for eyewitnesses of our unusual rendezvous. "We need to have a talk about some things."

"Talk to the guy you work for," Biceps spat out, "you piece of trash!"

I removed the aluminium foil and the plastic film from the empty cigarette pack, set it on fire and dropped it in front of the thug's face. He started frantically blowing and spitting and trying to turn away from it. Finally, he managed to put out the flame by rolling his head over it a couple of times. In the aftermath, he fixed me with his healthy eye, probably feeling the urge to dismember me.

"Next time I'll pour gas over you," I said, smiling. "Act serious."

"Fuck you!"

Fortunately, I had prepared a Plan B. I took the plastic Coke bottle from the coffee cup holder and twisted the cap off. The sharp, overpowering smell of gas hit me. I poured the entire content all over his clothes and tossed the empty bottle at him.

His eyes telegraphed a completely different emotion now. The one at half-mast was bulging, while the healthy one was about to pop out of its socket. My face scrunched up at the smell of gas fumes. I tried to bring the conversation back on track.

"Burning gas has a temperature of over 2,000℃. The pain is so excruciating that you'll pass out in ten seconds. Even if you survive the flames, you'll be left with over 60% of your body covered in third-degree burns. Your body will not be able to recover and you'll die of burn-related complications after a week of agonizing pain," I explained helpfully.

"Sick bastard!"

"I'm flattered! Can we get to the questions now?"

The thug nodded—a movement reduced to barely perceptible thanks to the fear gripping him.

"We'll play a simple game, Borislav. I'll ask you five questions. If you answer all of them right, you win. If you get even one of them wrong, you lose. Do you understand?"

Another nod. He looked scared enough to pee in his pants. Not that I would know if he did, seeing as his clothes were drenched in gas.

"A word of warning—'I don't know' counts as a wrong answer."

He couldn't even manage a nod. At this rate, he would faint real soon. I had to hurry up with the questioning.

"What do you know about the Arabs?"

"What you want to know?"

"Who are they, where are they from, why did they come here... everything."

"How should I know who they are? We were just told that some people were going to cross the border into the country on Sunday. We didn't even know they were Arabs. They were supposed to get to Burgas without trouble. We were told to keep an eye out for scum."

"Told by whom?"

"Our boss."

"And who is the boss in Izgrev? Daniel Slavov or Wheatear?"

"I have only one boss—Wheatear."

"And who does Wheatear answer to?"

"I don't know."

"Careful now!"

"I really don't know!"

"What about that policewoman? Aleksieva—who is she, who is she working for?"

"She's from Snake Island."

"What?"

"She's a viper, a cobra. A nasty piece of work."

"She's a nice piece of ass."

"She's a slut. She got her claws into Daniel the moment she came here."

"So she's his lover?"

"Worse. She's constantly ordering him around. The guy is under her thumb."

"So what?"

"It's not god for business."

"What business?"

"I don't know... that's what Wheatear says."

So Daniel Slavov and Wheatear had their own business. I had seen business partnerships break up in the past because one partner fell for some chick. So I had no doubt there was some tension between the two most powerful men in Izgrev.

"What about Martin? Is she his lover too?"

"I've heard rumors."

The situation in Izgrev was gradually taking shape—that of a love triangle, an obtuse one. Could this dynamic be at the heart of the frictions here? Ha, I would be surprised if it wasn't, actually.

"Borislav, I got one more question for you and it's the most important one. Your life depends on it."

I pulled out the lighter and held it in my hand so that Biceps could see it. I put my thumb on the sparkwheel and smiled.

"Veronica."

After a long pause he came back with:

"What about Veronica?"

"How much money does she owe you?"

"She owes me what she owes me."

I flicked the lighter and it caught, making Biceps curl up. I could swear this time he had torn a tendon.

"How much?"

"Twelve grand."

"Wrong answer, wise guy. She owes you nothing."

"She owes me nothing."

"What did she need the money for?"

"Her father was in a bad spot."

One of my guesses was just confirmed—a sick parent. She must have needed the money to pay for a surgery or some other medical bill. In a small town the local mobsters are the only place you can go and get this much money quickly. The one good thing about emergency loans like this is that you get the amount in cash right away. No waiting period, no reviewing of your financial situation, no approval needed. But it is all trouble from there on out. I had read in a book that loans and hell are built on the same principle—one mistake, a lifetime of paying for it.

"You are done with Veronica."

"Done how?"

"You're not going to bother here anymore. You forget about her existence. She owes you no money, no explanations, no nothing. It's like she's no longer here. You see her on the street, you don't talk to her. She literally bumps into you, you apologize to her. You don't as much as look into her eyes."

The thug swallowed hard, his eyes trained on the lighter.

"Well?!" I prompted.

"Forget about Veronica's existence. No more bothering her."

"Perfect."

I put the lighter away and closed the trunk with a thunk. I needed a minute to figure out my next move.

First, I didn't trust Biceps to keep his promises. But my hope was that he would leave Veronica alone at least for a while. Just enough time for her to pack her suitcases and get on a bus to Sofia or Vienna or wherever.

Second, I didn't really think Veronica would pack her suitcases and run away. Not in the least.

Third, I doubted Aleksieva was anyone's lover in this town. She had more class than all those men put together. But if she really had some sway over Zorro, it could prove useful. I was already knee-deep in the filthy mire of the Izgrev underworld. I knew too much. Someone, if not Zorro himself, might easily decide to get me out of the picture soon. I had to beat them to the punch.

I wouldn't want to negotiate with any of the strutting peacocks I had come across in Izgrev, about anything. But I needed a reasonable person to talk to and Aleksieva was probably my best option. She seemed cold-blooded, unbiased and even-tempered enough to actually listen to and appreciate what I had to offer in exchange for my freedom.

### 28.

I parked the black BMW at the curb opposite the police station. The car had tinted windows on the sides, which gave me some cover, but I wondered what would happen if Whey or Triceps or anyone else of the local thugs passed by and saw the SUV. It wasn't exactly a vehicle that could go unnoticed.

Muffled screams and unintelligible threats were streaming out of the trunk, but I ignored those. What was bothering me was the stench of gas emanating from the thug's clothes and filling the car. I cracked the driver's window open. I was kind of hoping that Biceps would get lightheaded from the fumes and fall asleep.

I turned on the radio and slumped in my seat, waiting for the beauty of the Izgrev police station to show up.

***

You can tell how a person treats his job by the time he arrives for work. The ones who get there a minute before the start of the workday are diligent and responsible people. Those who are always fifteen minutes late come to work just to collect a paycheck at the end of the month. But those truly devoted to their profession are equally likely to be two hours early or two hours late. To them, there's no beginning or end to the workday, no limitations. They are consumed by their job at all times. Even in their sleep. I suspected Zorro was one of those obsessed types. It probably wasn't rare for him to spend the night in the station.

Yesterday, Zachary had teased Aleksieva about being late and she had countered with something about actually being early. That brief exchange of jabs seemed snappy, like something they had done many times before. So the beauty was regularly late for work. I wouldn't put her in that second category—of people who were twiddling their thumbs until something better came along. But I could be wrong.

Aleksieva turned up at half past eight. She was dressed pretty casually for a police officer: colorful sports leggings, half-zip fleece top, green waxed windbreaker, knitted hat and gloves.

I saw her from afar. She was striding briskly and kind of wobbly, as if on stilts or very high heels. I squinted to see her footwear—sneakers. So she was just hurrying to get to work in time. Although her outfit wasn't exactly appropriate police station dress.

Anyway, I was going to take just a minute of her time. As renowned anthropologist and expert on human behavior Evgeni Dimov once observed, if you fail to get the female's attention in the first seven seconds, seven more years of trying won't do the trick. I got out of the car and accosted Aleksieva when she was about twenty steps away from the police station.

"Mrs. Aleksieva?"

Mrs. Aleksieva took a long look at me, no doubt trying to place me, but she either couldn't remember or saw me as a nuisance in her already hectic day. Or she was offended by my use of "Mrs." Right, that same anthropologist suggests that strangers of the female kind should be addressed as "Miss". Miss Aleksieva was about to pass me by without saying a word when I stepped in front of her—discreetly and not in an intimidating way.

"Hear me out, please."

"I'm in a hurry."

"I have a deal to offer you."

"I'm not interested."

"It's a really good deal."

"Big whoop! Let me pass."

"I heard the police were looking for a gun."

Aleksieva froze for a second and gave me a searching look. She had gorgeous eyes, with little flames flashing in their depths at this particular moment. She was furious and I could only hope it wasn't because I was standing in her way. I also kept my fingers crossed that she would show interest in the topic. It didn't work, though.

"That's their job," she said, getting around me and into the station.

"Just a second!" I chased after her, hoping to convince her to hear me out. I had one shot.

***

I followed the voices. Aleksieva had gone to Daniel Slavov's office. If the way she was yelling at him was any indication, she had stormed in there. The padded door was supposed to be soundproof, but it couldn't keep the sounds of Aleksieva's formidable display of anger from escaping the room. If Slavov even had the guts to cut into her tirade, he was talking much more quietly because there was no audible proof of his side of the conversation.

"How could you?!"

"..."

"Don't tell me to calm down! How could you kill him?!"

"..."

"Who else could it be? I know it was you!"

"..."

"You crazy, jealous bastard!"

"..."

"Don't tell me to shut up! Don't tell me what to do."

"..."

At that point the police chief must have said something that really got to her because a second later the sound of a window shattering split the air. Either that or a very large vase was no longer decorating the office. Maybe Aleksieva had hurled something heavy at Slavov, missed her target and hit the window instead. Flinging objects appeared to be part and parcel of communicating with the police around here. I wouldn't be surprised if that custom got upgraded to shooting. You know, to get the conversation really going. In another second, the policewoman stormed out of the office, slamming the door and flew by me. Tears were flowing down her cheeks.

I had no idea who had killed whom, but the victim was someone Aleksieva cared about. She wouldn't have been that upset otherwise. Considering the events of the past twenty-four hours and using the process of elimination, I had to believe the dead guy was Shooter.

I felt sorry for him. I had been holding out hope that he had managed to get away from the mobsters.

Bastards!

Or maybe there was a perfectly innocent explanation: Zorro took her beloved cat to the vet to euthanize the poor animal and put his old, arthritic body out of its misery. Zorro doing something out of the goodness of his heart and compassion for the cat. Totally in character, I'd say.

One thing was beyond a shadow of a doubt: Aleksieva and Slavov were closer than two colleagues were supposed to be. Much closer.

I felt a firm hand grabbing me by the neck. I couldn't even turn to see who it was.

"What are you doing here?"

Zachary.

I should've known that setting foot in the police station was a dumb move. I should've been more careful. Avoiding the holding cell would be a nice outcome at this point.

Zachary had a remarkably strong grip for someone on the wrong side of fifty. At his age, he should have long been retired. Perhaps he was a local police legend resting on his laurels. Given his nocturnal exploits, something else I had been an unwitting eyewitness to, his legendary status spanned more than one field.

Zachary knocked on the doorframe and pushed me inside the office of Daniel Slavov.

"Look who I found lurking outside," Zachary announced.

"Get out!" Slavov looked just as furious as Aleksieva. "Wait outside!"

***

We were standing in the hallway—I rested against one wall, with hands behind my back, Zachary was leaning against the opposite wall, slightly hunched, hands stuffed in the pockets of his police jacket. I could try to make a desperate run for it, but I had the feeling Zachary would just casually extend a leg and trip me. He reminded me of those older men whose idea of sport is to climb the closest mountain top in the winter with no shirt. Those guys don't look like much, but they are strong enough to dislocate your elbow in an arm wrestling match. We stood there, staring at each other.

"Another dead body, huh?" I began.

"Shut your mouth."

"Who died?"

"Shut up!"

What could he do to me, hit me? Throw something at me as the local people liked to do during a conversation? Arrest me?

"Boss, what do you say we exchange jackets? Yours seems more..."

"If you don't keep quiet, I'm sending you down to the basement."

A young policeman holding a folder came from the direction of the desk sergeant, spotted us and hesitated.

"OG?"

"What is it, Mitko?"

The young buck came over to us, threw me a curious glance and started chopping it up with Zachary.

"Are you going to the pistol range next Friday?"

"What day of the month is that?"

"The eighteenth."

"Will do," Zachary said after the two chatted for a while. "Count me in."

"OK," the younger man opened the folder. "Just sign this."

"Where?"

"Here. Under Zachary Shopov."

Shopov.

Like Veronica Shopova.

There were probably at least twenty people in Izgrev with the same last name. Is one-in-twenty chance a good bet? You can ask a bookie.

The young buck walked away, leaving me once again alone with the veteran cop. I had no clue what Daniel Slavov was doing in his office, probably licking his wounds. Mostly the damage done to his ego. It sure was a time-consuming task.

"How's Veronica?"

Nothing wrong with trying my luck.

Zachary pinned me with a look that said he was wondering if the whole he had recently dug in the backyard of his country house was big enough to swallow my dead body or if he would have to shovel some more dirt. He cleared his throat and pushed his hands into his jacket pockets. The corner of a gold-colored lottery ticket peeped out of one pocket.

Aha.

Aha!

No disease, no operation, no nothing! Zachary was strong as an ox.

I was finally starting to understand. Veronica's father was in a tight spot because of debt. The OG here liked gambling. What he was addicted to—betting, card games, the slot machines in the local casino? It was a classic way of making a police officer dependent, of getting him on the hook, as mobsters would put it. His daughter somehow found out and paid his debt to the bad guys at the expense of an enslaving loan. But it wasn't in her power to cure his gambling addiction. It is a lifelong disease that sometimes turns fatal.

That was it. It also explained why Veronica couldn't file a harassment complaint against Biceps with the police. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

"How do you know Veronica?" Zachary asked.

Uh-oh. The ice was breaking.

"I had to get gas recently."

"If I find out you've been bothering her, I'll take your head off," Zachary threatened.

And if you find out that Beeby has been bothering her, what bodily harm will you do to him, OG?

"Boss, you're tripping. Veronica is a good kid."

"She is a good kid. Takes after her father, God rest his soul."

Poof!

There went my theories about who did what, why and how. I wasn't good at this investigating thing. My imagination wasn't big enough.

"OG!" Another young policeman materialized from somewhere. "The cleaning crew for the cage are here. Are you coming?"

"You can handle it by yourself," Zachary said and motioned toward me. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

The newcomer threw me a quick glance just as his predecessor had and nodded.

"While they're here, should I have them clean up the desk sergeant's office too?"

"Have them wash all the cruisers, for all I care."

"The cage" is police slang for the room where suspects are kept. The guestroom. The holding cell in the basement. If the police had called a cleaning service, the cage had to be really messed up. I remembered Garo warning me to keep it clean when I had asked what would happen if I needed to pee. You sit tight and hold. Or you gonna find out they like a good beating here. Well, someone hadn't been able to hold it.

"Someone shit his pants, eh?"

Zachary was silent. The other police officer gave me a puzzled look and walked away.

"Must've been scared shitless that you would take his head off."

"Shut up!"

"Or he wanted to send a message, 'I piss on this government!'"

Zachary slapped me across the face. His reaction was so unexpected and unusual that it caught me off guard. I even felt pangs of shame, guilt, remorse. If he had balled his fist and punched me, it would have felt like something between two men. A slap was a father teaching his son a lesson. It sounded hurtful and commanding in my ears. There was reproach in Zachary's eyes.

"He slit his wrists. OK?"

I pictured blood smeared all over the holding cell and felt sick. For the person, not because blood made me squeamish.

"Is he dead?"

"Well, what the hell do you think?"

"He killed himself?"

"Yes. He left a suicide note."

So Todor, if that was who we were talking about, had slit his wrists and made such a mess that the police had to call a cleaning company to fix it. Aleksieva had been furious over someone's death, while Slavov had been trying to convince her it hadn't been his doing.

Was there a connection here?

Well, what the hell do you think?

Someone helped that guy die. And now he could no longer open his mouth to contradict the authorities. Problem solved.

That's when the lightbulb went off in my head—it wasn't Todor. Even if Todor had gotten caught, he would have been done in quietly, somewhere deep into the woods. They would have had nothing to gain from dragging him back to Izgrev and throwing him behind bars, where he would have been a headache.

What other prominent Izgrev resident needed his mouth closed? Who had been a threat to start talking and contradicting the official version of events?

Aha!

I got it.

The suicide guy was Garo.

Just wonderful. Textbook job. I could almost hear the announcement— unable to bear the psychological burden of his crime, the perpetrator took his own life.

### 29.

Daniel Slavov came out of his office looking his usual flawless self: black pants, black shirt and tie, black suit jacket, black coat. Yup, he was a black domino mask away from being a decent Zorro lookalike.

He started down the hallway without sparing us a glance, but Zachary seemed to know what to do. He grabbed me by the elbow and we trailed behind the inspector. We followed him to an unmarked Opel Astra. Slavov slid behind the wheel, while Zachary shoved me in the back, closed the door, which had no handle on the inside, and settled in the front passenger seat. No one said a word. The police chief lit a cigarette and rolled down his window to let the smoke out. To the casual observer, we might have appeared three old friends on their way to buy some nets of onions and late-season potatoes from the closest farmers' market.

As the Opel Astra was pulling off, I noticed two boys standing by the rear end of the black BMW. They strained to hear something, exchanged looks and burst out laughing. I imagined Biceps was breathing fire by now.

***

We were leaving the city limits when Daniel Slavov stubbed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and slammed his palms on the wheel.

"How could I fall for it?"

Obviously trained by long years of serving as the inspector's sidekick, Zachary said nothing. He knew no response was expected. But Zorro was full of questions and all of them seemed to be rhetorical:

"How do you think Martin and his scumbags found out about it?"

"Who could've fed them information?"

"What was all that hanging around me about?"

It had to be a ritual of sorts, in which the boss's monologue, although entirely composed of questions, somehow suggested the right answers to his subordinates because Zachary finally murmured:

"It's my fault, Slavov. I should've seen it coming."

The inspector lit another cigarette and punched the air.

"Bitch!"

"We should've vetted her the moment she came to the station," Zachary added.

"That's why I saddled you with breaking her in! So you can find everything about her. That's why I made sure you shared shifts."

"I underestimated her too."

Aleksieva. The uniformed femme fatale Christina Aleksieva. Somehow she had tricked them, leaving a sour taste in their mouths. More so in the case of Daniel Slavov.

We took a turn-off leading down a narrow, steep paved road that cut through the forest. Zorro made the turn sharper than it had to be, causing Zachary to clutch the handle above his passenger door. The car skidded for a second before Zorro could bring it under control again. He swore under his breath.

"That night, when the damn Arabs had to get to Burgas, I was with her. Wheatear called me about two in the morning to tell me that he and his people had botched the job. I left her to deal with that mess. She probably called Martin and his cronies the moment I was out the door."

"I can see it in my head," Zachary picked up the story. "She told them they had the wrong refugees and they panicked."

"That's exactly what happened. Martin confirmed it."

"He told you she had called him?"

"No. Just that they figured out what they'd done. Realized they had caught bigger fish than they meant to and got scared that their boat might capsize."

Just look at those maritime metaphors! You could tell we were in a coastal town. Actually we had left Izgrev far behind. The narrow road had dipped along the edge of a ravine. Here the pavement was pretty badly eroded and the car was bouncing from one pothole to another. As we were crossing the bed of a dried up stream, the car lost traction again, even though the hardened mud was covered with crushed stone. The police chief took another sharp turn and the Opel Astra nearly tumbled into the ravine.

"And what about the other night at the car shop? They knew we were coming. They were expecting us. Martin was jerking us around, buying time until the others got away."

"Sounds logical," Zachary agreed.

"Bitch!"

The road ahead was blocked by a massive security fence with coils of barbed wire atop it. Zorro seemed hell bent on crashing through the metal gate right up until the moment he slammed the brakes, bringing the car to a shuddering halt a meter from the fencing. He got out, opened the padlock with a key and pushed the gate open. His actions were those of a conscientious owner. He had been here before.

Five hundred meters later we emerged from the trees to find ourselves surrounded by run-down buildings, concrete foundations with reinforcement steel sticking out of them, and piles of bricks. "Saricayir Water Treatment Plant" read a rusty sign hung beneath the roof of the closest building.

Zachary pulled me out of the car and led me on a slow march toward one of the facilities. I couldn't imagine a better place for an execution. The veteran cop turned to the police chief and held out a hand, palm up.

"The important thing is that she can't hurt us anymore."

"How can you be so sure?" Zorro handed him two keys on a piece of twine. "What if she starts singing?"

"What is there to sing?"

"Whatever she knows."

"And what does she know?"

"Enough."

"So we'll have to be convincing," Zachary smiled meaningfully.

The inspector stared at him for a long moment and nodded.

"I leave that to you."

Uncle Zachary!

That's how Veronica had referred to him that morning at the gas station when Biceps asked her if she had seen any strangers. Uncle Zachary with that woman, his new partner. How could that remark slip by me? How could I miss the connection? It was only now that her words popped back in my head. Uncle Zachary.

Of course, he couldn't be her father.

He wasn't an actual uncle to her either, I was completely sure of that. No way a bastard like him had the same blood running through his veins as a girl like her. She probably called him "uncle" out of respect for his age , just like the young cops in the station called him "OG".

Zachary unlocked the heavy metal door to the building and heaved it opening. He shoved me inside and pushed me to sit on the floor. The room was spacious but decrepit and smelled of damp lime. All windows had thick metal bars. They were missing windowpanes, though—the glass was probably long broken to pieces, the window-frames burned to ash. Romantic and erotic messages had been scribbled on and scratched into the walls, all sorts of trash littered the tiled floor, rolling around in a layer of plaster.

Zorro strolled among the pieces of trash, careful not to get his black shoes dirty.

"How are you Emil?"

I said nothing in response. No use.

"You should've listened to me and left Izgrev yesterday. Can't say I've met many guys as dumb and stubborn as you."

"What is this going to be—scolding or spanking?"

"You get more dislikable with each meeting we have."

"The feeling is mutual."

"I really don't know what to do with you."

"Why don't you just stage my suicide? I hear you're good at that."

Slavov shot a look at Zachary and lit himself another cigarette. I was beginning to understand what had driven him to wade into the swill of the underworld. His heavy-smoker habits must have been eating up his salary, so he had needed a side hustle.

"I'll leave you here for a while," Zorro surveyed the surroundings. "It's not Melpomene, but you'll at least have a shelter from the rain. It'll be good for you. Who knows, you might even come to your senses."

"You realize how pathetic you all are?"

"We?" Slavov cracked a smile. "Take a good look at yourself first!"

"At least I'm not a fraud. I don't pretend to be a good guy."

"Try it sometimes. You may even fool someone."

"But you aren't fooling anyone."

"We're not trying to."

"You're all... Slavov, you're nothing but a regular criminal."

"I?" the inspector scoffed. "A criminal?"

"Yes. You're also corrupt, an extortionist and a murderer. Did I mention incompetent?"

"I wasn't paying close attention."

"But this time you've gone ahead and screwed yourself."

"Oh?"

"You didn't think this one through," I went on. "Gypsies don't commit suicide. It's a scientifically proven fact. No one will believe you."

He and Zachary exchanged looks of confusion and Zorro grinned.

"This may be hard to believe, but Martin is not a gypsy. I mean, wasn't."

Martin.

The guy whose blood was smeared all over the holding cell was Martin?

Martin was dead?

Had Zorro really had the guts to ace him?

So the gloves were off, big time.

"Besides, he was kind enough to take his own life," Slavov continued. "He didn't need my help."

Yeah, right!

That's why Aleksieva had been furious this morning. That's why she had called Daniel Slavov a jealous bastard. Daniel Slavov had killed Martin like a dog, one hundred percent, and staged his death to look like a suicide. The whole thing was going to hell in a handbasket. This town was crawling with psychos.

"I'll deal with you later," the Izgrev police chief dropped the cigarette butt on the tiled floor and ground it with his squeaky shoe. "I have a bigger fish to fry now."

"Scream all you want," Zachary chimed in, "no one can hear you here. We are three kilometers away from the main road and four and a half away from the next closest building."

Scream? What were they planning to do to me?

Nothing.

They left, locking the heavy metal door behind them. The sound of the Opel Astra whirring up the road quickly faded away.

### 30.

I stood up and tested every single one of the window bars. I had no chance of taking any of them out. They were at least five centimeters thick and set in concrete. The building had been stripped of everything of use, but no one had managed to cut through the window bars and lift them. Apparently, even scrap collectors like Garo had failed to wrest them out of the concrete walls. So escaping through a window wasn't an option for me. The door wasn't going to do it for me either—it was as tightly shut as the door of a bank vault and, short of finding a stick of TNT somewhere in the rubble, the likelihood of me opening it was zero.

The exterior walls and the ceiling were made of concrete. The bricks scattered around had been dislodged from the interior walls. The rest of the stuff littering the floor had obviously been left behind by random visitors over the years—before Zorro and Zachary started locking up the place. There was nothing useful to be found—just plastic waste, paper and glass. I kicked aside a pile of bottles and newspapers yellow with age. Finding a hammer and a chisel was clearly a long shot. But it would have been nice if someone had at least thought to bring a bed and a blanket in here.

This may have seemed a good place for execution earlier, but it turned out to be the absolute perfect prison. Compared to this abandoned building, the holding cell back at the police station was a hotel. So I was a prisoner now. Imprisoned not by the nation's judicial system, but by a sociopath drunk on power.

I picked up several of the whole bricks and made myself a comfortable bed, as much as lying on bricks could ever be comfortable. The warm jacket with the gas station logo was good enough to ward off the cold, but it wasn't much of a cushion against the hard fired bricks. I stretched out on the makeshift bed, arms folded behind my head. If nothing else, I had what every prisoner had in spades: time.

Time to think.

Zorro had killed Martin. I was sure of it. Even if I had seen Martin slit his wrists with my own eyes, I would have guessed that Slavov had slipped something in his coffee. Martin had been the freshest of all the strange birds I had crossed paths with in Izgrev. Despite all his flaws, he seemed educated, refined, with a vision for the future. People like him don't take their own lives in dingy holding cells of small-town police stations, let alone leave suicide notes.

I was curious to know what he had used to craft this supposed suicide note. What did the note contain—did he ask for forgiveness or levelled accusations?

How had it come to that?

True, kidnapping the Arabs under the nose of Daniel Slavov had been a slap to the inspector's face. But that blunder of the patriotic bunch alone didn't have to be a matter of life or death. Then three of the four Arabs had turned up dead anyway, making the police chief livid. Still, the situation called for nothing more serious than the lizard tactic of cutting your tail off and running away.

So Martin had cut his tail off by turning Todor in and that should have been enough for the storm to blow over. The authorities had their fall guy, Garo, the underworld had gotten its pound of flesh through Shooter, order was restored. Even if Shooter managed to escape the thugs, why would Martin be scapegoated for it? Criminals are rarely a pleasant crowd, but they respect fairness.

The only explanation I could come up with was that other emotions had festered in Slavov—hurt, humiliation, battered ego. Even if the entire population of the country had conceded: Martin, we know that you kidnapped and killed the refugees, but you've paid for this mistake with the loss of one of your friends, so we forgive you, Daniel Slavov would have still had a personal score to settle with him. And the bone of contention started and ended with Aleksieva.

Jealousy. Plain old jealousy had signed Martin's death sentence. It was what had driven Zorro over the edge. Almost every sin can be forgiven or atoned for, except for trampling all over the feelings of a narcissistic type like Zorro.

Aleksieva was just a hunting trophy. A big game in the arm-candy kingdom. Being in her favor was what made the police chief feel like a real man. To Daniel Slavov, having a woman of her caliber in his bed must have felt like seeing his name on a heavenly scoreboard keeping track of alpha males. There it was flashing in golden letters.

But then he had found out that his beloved was a hussy. That other virile men had been tasting her, men he must have considered less deserving of such honor. It must have come as a harsh blow. I was half-surprised that he hadn't shot Aleksieva point blank the moment he found the truth.

It was a bit deflating. Police officers, mobsters, patriots, bold moves, highfalutin speeches, gestures of self-sacrifice... and at the end it all came down to base instincts and primal needs. It boiled down to the competition to impregnate the best female out there. In the animal kingdom, when two males are pretty equal, one of them is doomed to die in the fight for supremacy.

So that was likely the end of the story. We were in for a boring epilogue—Slavov would find the strength to go on despite his pain and would grow increasingly hardened to the world. Aleksieva would move to another city, where the local powerful men would chase after her. Beauty can be a gift and a curse. If he had the brains, Whey would rise through the ranks to one day become a well-respected businessman and chairman of the municipal council. Biceps and Triceps would go their separate ways. One of them, either one, would own a gym, a nightclub and a warehouse for construction products, while the other would end up a complete failure. Veronica... I hoped that at least she would break the mould and do something beautiful with her life.

I hoped that her problems with the local thugs had gone away. At least for a couple of days. If I knew anything about fearless souls like Biceps, he wouldn't dare lay a finger on Veronica. Surely not today or tomorrow. Not until he managed to scrub the odor of gas off his skin and the image of my thumb on the sparkwheel off his memory. Then he would regain some of his confidence and start roaming the streets of Izgrev like a lunatic on the hunt—I pictured him with a machete in one hand and a feral glint in his eyes. I kept my fingers crossed that she would take stock of her life and get out of town before that.

I had one more nagging question. What was going to happen with me? It was highly likely that Slavov and Zachary would come back to finish me off. They might let Whey and his henchmen have fun with me as some sort of sick reward for their loyal service. They might insert needles under my fingernails or force hot iron sticks between my ribs. Just to pass the time. I had seen a lot in my lifetime. I wouldn't be surprised if they paraded me through town in shackles, a "thief" sign hanging from my neck. Honestly, nothing would surprise me.

But the most probable scenario was for them to leave me in this abandoned water treatment plant. Just forget about me. It wouldn't be the most horrific end imaginable. I would die of dehydration or starvation in a couple of weeks, unless I smashed my head into the concrete walls out of desperation first. Let's say they didn't forget about me on purpose, but they got into a car crash on their way back to Izgrev or died in some freak accident—no one else knew where I was.

And then there was the one-to-one-thousand chance that I would get out of this alive and with all my body parts in their proper places. I was tempted to dwell on this outcome to keep my spirits up. But one to one thousand weren't good odds. I didn't need to ask a bookie to know that.

### 31.

I lay on my makeshift bed the entire afternoon. At dusk, I finally got up and even gathered what larger pieces of plastic I could find for a fire later. All the book and old newspaper pages were damp and useless, but I stumbled upon a wooden board that could serve as kindling if I figured out a way to chop it into smaller pieces.

So I got down to business.

I broke a glass beer bottle and used its jagged edges to cut really thin, long sticks from the board. They looked more like spaghetti than kindling but were enough to build a small fire. I broke the rest of the board into as many pieces I could—those would keep the fire burning.

For some reason, there was a tire in the room. Burning it would have provided a good source of heating, but I decided to keep it as a chair. If I ended up locked for days, it would be nice to have something soft to sit on.

I also found a handbag. And a sneaker. Finding a single shoe had always stirred my imagination. No one simply throws away a shoe. You keep or toss away shoes as a pair. What had the one-sneakered person done? Limped from here to Izgrev? Or had he dumped both shoes to begin with, only for a nocturnal bird of prey to snatch one, lured by the rat-like smell?

I used more bricks to wall off the fire on three sides and channel the heat from the burning wood toward me. There was no need for a chimney. The room was airy enough, plus the ceiling was high so the smoke was going to drift way up and away from my eyes. I did well—no one would have mistaken my small construction project for a fireplace, but it was going to do the trick.

I lay through the entire night.

I waited to feel really cold to light the fire. My stockpile of fuel was going to last about an hour, hour and a half. If I burned through it shortly after sunset, I would be freezing to death by midnight. The night before, I had practically sleepwalked to town in search of heat and a cozy place to stay. There wasn't going to be walking of any kind tonight. So I had to use my resources economically and sensibly. I didn't even want to think about how I would warm myself tomorrow night.

So I didn't dwell on it.

I don't like existential crises. I have a strategy that satisfies any questions that may bubble up: I am where I am and I do what I do.

Simple as that.

At this very moment, thousands of people around the world were fighting to survive the night, dying from starvation and poverty, being tortured to death, succumbing to incurable diseases, or jumping off of imposingly high bridges. At this very moment, thousands of people were being raped, mutilated, beheaded, shot, or torn to pieces by wild animals... Many of those people were probably younger than me.

Life can be wonderful, but its ugly sides were always peeking out from behind the next corner like a tangle of stinking intestines from the open gut of a ruminant.

I had nothing to complain about. I was sheltered from the elements and had a roof over my head. I had a bed, a chair, a fireplace and a newspaper. To many, this was the definition of homey. Some could only dream of such luxuries. My grandmother used the Turkish expression rahat olmak for such cases, which literary translates as "to find one's peace". That's exactly how I felt.

Too bad I expected Daniel Slavov to come and disturb my peace at any moment. Not that I was staying wide awake, listening to every little sound. I just had a premonition. And it proved to be justified.

But instead of Zorro, it was Christina Aleksieva who showed up.

Was I surprised?

To be honest, Justin Bieber himself coming to serenade me through the window bars would have been less of a surprise.

***

I heard a car rolling to a stop in the yard. My prison didn't have windows on that side of the building, so I couldn't see anything. It could have been anyone. I grabbed a round rock that fit in my hand nicely and took position behind the heavy metal door. But my guest made no attempt to enter. The visitor snuck to one window and turned on a flashlight. The beam was trained on me, spotlighting me, blinding me.

"Mr. Milev?"

A woman's voice.

For some reason, my first thought was that I was being saved from the clutches of the criminal world by some intrepid Human Rights Watch lawyer. The lady knew my last name, so this had to be serious business. She was probably a daredevil, a feminist, a vegetarian, a cyclist and whatever else was in the profile of NGO activists these days. Above all, she would be a thorough administrator. I pictured her carrying a thick folder with about fifty documents I would have to sign before the struggle to get me out could begin. This elaborate fantasy went up in smoke with the very next line of the lady, who sounded very much like Aleksieva.

"What are you doing over there?"

Making fruit preserves, as the comedy character Kaleko Aleko once responded to a similarly ridiculous question. She should have asked me what I was doing here. And I would have asked her the same.

The flashlight was still blinding me, so I couldn't see her face, but I was certain that that was Christina Aleksieva on the other side of the bars. If I threw the rock at a spot half a meter above the flashlight, I could easily strike her between the eyes. There was also a one-to-four chance that the rock would clank off one of the window bars.

The reality was I had no reason to fling the rock at her. I dropped it to the ground and raised my hands in the air—I wasn't giving myself up, just showing I didn't hold anything.

I strode closer to the opening in the wall.

"Hello!"

Good manners required a "nice to see you", but I couldn't really see her and I wasn't particularly thrilled about the meeting. Like I said, I don't like empty talk.

"Hello!" Aleksieva returned and took a step back just in case. "How are you?"

"Don't know, don't care."

"Let's not start on the wrong foot, Mr. Milev!"

A lady with better planning skills than hers would have brought home-cooked pie, a Thermos full of coffee and a handsaw to cut the iron bars standing between me and freedom. Just to keep the conversation going, and eventually get to the negotiations she had really come for, I asked:

"How do you know my last name?"

"I found you in the system."

The system.

I had been trying to live outside the system for many years. Not because I was stubborn, as Daniel Slavov had called me, but because I didn't necessarily like the system. The system probably returned the sentiment. It also had bad memories of me and refused to let those go.

"And what did you find?"

"Interesting stuff. You haven't been wasting your time."

"Could you turn off the flashlight please? I'm about to lose my eyesight."

"I'd rather be able to see you."

Uh-oh!

Didn't think she said that because I was easy on the eye. More likely, she didn't trust me one bit. Probably worried I would do something to hurt her. I had no idea what she'd found in the system or what conclusions she'd drawn for herself. If she had dug deep enough, she would know that I never strike first. I had no intention of starting now. Didn't find it necessary to share that part with her, though.

"Did Daniel Slavov send you?"

"No."

"Then how did you know where to find me?"

"My colleagues are creatures of habit."

"How long have you been colleagues?"

"This is sensitive information that doesn't concern you."

"Ballpark it for me."

"It hasn't been long."

"You're very cocky for someone who hasn't been in Izgrev for long."

"I could say the same for you."

I couldn't see anything, had to settle for dealing with a disembodied voice. It sounded like she had come alone—her behavior suggested the same—but that was still an assumption. She could have twelve dudes from the Special Forces behind her, for all I knew.

"Are you going to get me out of here?" I asked.

"I don't have a key."

"Then why have you come here?"

"To make you an offer."

"I'm not interested."

"Just hear me out before you decide."

If she figured she would play the good cop, she figured wrong. There are no good cops, I can tell you that. Not that they are not good at heart, but that twisted cop mentality always takes over. In the moment and over the long haul. Policing methods damage people on both sides of the barricade, so to speak.

And if she had come to buy my silence, I would laugh in her face. My silence? Who would I talk to, who would even believe a word I had to say?

But to come all the way here, this policewoman was hardly someone to give up easily, so I listened.

"What I'm about to say is confidential," she started.

"You've got the wrong guy," I said. "I can't keep a secret."

"Not in that sense. It's more that I want..."

"Miss Aleksieva... I have pressing engagements, so please spare me the long-winded prelude?"

"Excuse me?"

"Get to the point. Talk."

"Maybe if you would let me speak..."

"You've come all the way here to ask something of me, not give me. That much is clear. The least you could do is show some respect and spare me the nonsense."

Christina Aleksieva took a deep breath and turned off the flashlight. Merciful darkness settled around us and I finally felt the cold rushing in through the windows. Another ten minutes in that draught and I would come down with pneumonia.

"I'm probably making a mistake..." she hesitated.

"Give it to me straight! No conditions, no beating around the bush, no traps."

"All right," Aleksieva let out another sigh. "I assume that by now you have some idea of the kind of person Daniel Slavov is."

I had no intention of being super engaged in the conversation. I was reserving judgment until she was finished reciting her speech. Judgement not on whether I liked what I heard, but whether it sounded phony or not.

"He's been chief of the Izgrev police department for nearly eight years. His reputation is mostly of an accomplished professional who has the respect of his colleagues. But lately he's been acting strangely."

A police officer acting strangely? Really? Unheard of.

"As far as I know, there've been reports against him filed by citizens and police personnel."

Now that was a stunner. Citizen reports? Wow! I found it hard to imagine a regular Bulgarian citizen filing a complaint against any chief of police, for any reason. It was simple herd mentality. Reports from colleagues—now that was just part of the trade.

"Daniel Slavov is also a wily veteran, he knows how to watch his back. It's not easy to catch him slipping. It's hard to find evidence even for some of his more outrageous offenses."

Why wasn't I surprised?

I thought I heard Aleksieva sniffling. Maybe it was the draught. Or maybe she was being sentimental about her shared memories with that well-respected colleague of hers.

"That was my job—to gather information first-hand."

According to the Izgrev rumor mill, the chick had been gathering information using other parts of her body too.

"But Daniel Slavov is very mistrustful of other people," Aleksieva said and after a deep breath went on, "I never thought it would come to this."

Now she was definitely sniffling. Maybe the realization that she was about to betray her ex-boyfriend upset her. Then again, betraying an ex was a cliché, not a big deal right? One day you wake up no longer in love and you go on a revenge mission.

What had happened to her?

Slavov was an acid trip. Being in a romantic relationship with such a complex person must have been taxing for Aleksieva. She had probably tolerated him the same way Veronica was tolerating Biceps—setting some boundaries and hoping that the guy would change his ways and start acting properly. But people like Slavov are hard to please and every day comes with a new challenge. Christina Aleksieva had somehow managed to keep everything bottled up inside her. Until today.

Something had made her snap.

But what?

Martin—that's what.

Martin had been killed.

One of her lovers had killed the other. Fans of overly melodramatic TV series like Tears of Bosporus can only long for such plot twists.

Something in her was irreparably broken.

Christina Aleksieva was a strong woman. I thought of her as a castaway who had survived howling gales of sorrow out in the see and was now clinging to the rock of reason in the aftermath of this disorientating onslaught of emotions. Rather quickly and correctly she had concluded that if someone didn't stop him, Daniel Slavov was capable of slaughtering half of the Izgrev population. I wondered why she hadn't just taken him down herself. A nine-millimeter bullet between his eyes would've done the job. A shot in the face would've been the choice of a strong-minded woman like her. The judge on the case would've been in awe of her and considered her devastating personal loss, state of extreme emotional distress, and clean record as extenuating circumstances. She could've even gotten away with a suspended sentence.

"Daniel Slavov is a murderer," Aleksieva sad between sniffles. "He must be stopped."

Was that it? Had officer Aleksieva come to put a hit on her ex-boyfriend?

"I see what you're getting at," I finally said. "Not going to happen."

Aleksieva wasn't about to give up, though. Her face got lit up by a sudden small flame and I could finally see her in the dark. She was even more beautiful without makeup. The flame disappeared, replaced by a glowing red dot. She had lit a cigarette. The smell of burning tobacco reached me across the window bars and I had to take a step back. I don't like breathing secondhand smoke.

"Why?"

"Because I don't trust you," I said. "I don't trust anyone in Izgrev."

"Would you've agreed to do it, if you trusted me?"

"No."

The red dot in front of Christina Aleksieva's face flashed several times, punctuating the silence. Miss Izgrev was smoking and thinking. I was willing to bet she had expected some resistance from me and had come prepared.

"What do you have to lose? You're stuck in a bad place anyway."

"There's always a way out."

"He'll come back and probably..."

"Leave us to deal with this like men."

"He'll likely try to kill you." After a sigh, Aleksieva added, "And succeed."

"Then get me out of here."

"I can't."

"Assign someone to protect me."

"I can't do that either. Everyone back at the station is loyal to Daniel Slavov."

I wondered what she called him in those moments of ecstasy when he made her soar with the crescendo of physical intimacy. Danielito, Danito, Dani, Dan... No, some names just didn't work that way.

"Call for reinforcements."

"How about you just agree to help me?"

"What will that change?"

"People like Daniel Slavov should..."

"If it's not Daniel, it'll be someone else. Does it matter? It's not the people you need to fix, the system is corrupted. You're a part of it and should..."

"But you'll do something that..."

"Thank you for stopping by," I said, putting an end to the conversation.

I turned around and strode to the opposite corner of the room. I really didn't want to listen to nonsense. This woman, whom everyone around here described as a viper and a bitch, was lying to me without batting an eye, trying to take me for a ride.

Aleksieva turned the flashlight back on.

"Mr. Milev!"

I kept silent.

"I can arrange for some... for you to get paid for your services."

Paid? No one had ever offered me money to commit murder. The chick obviously saw me as scum, but she had no right to take me for the lowest of scums. That was too much, and quite rude.

I grabbed a piece of brick from the floor and hurled it in the general direction of the window. My intention wasn't to hit her, just make it clear that the conversation was over. The brick hit the metal bars and thudded to the floor. Christina Aleksieva finally got the message—she had lost me as a listener and a potential bribed witness.

"You're not helping me..."

I put my hands over my ears because I already knew how that argument went. I counted to twenty-one in my head and lowered my hands.

I heard her footsteps receding. Judging by the way she slammed the car door, she was pretty pissed. Soon the engine whirred into action and her car crawled up the narrow road weaving through the wood.

I remembered Zorro opening the gate with one of those two keys on a piece of twine. He had probably locked it on his way out. Christina Aleksieva had driven to the yard of the run-down plant. She had passed through the gate. She had to have unlocked it. It was only logical to assume that she also had a key to the door of the building where I was imprisoned. She'd probably had it with her the whole time we'd been talking. In case I'd said yes to her sick offer.

Bitch!

### 32.

I lay throughout the night.

At first, my mind was busy puzzling over the unexpected visit of Christina Aleksieva, but every thread of logic it picked up led to a dead end. Besides, thinking about anything related to the police always drains the life out of me. Then I thought about Martin and wondered if he had known that Aleksieva and Zorro were lovers. If so, had he encouraged her to keep the relationship going or given her one ultimatum after another to leave him? Were the regular folks in Izgrev whispering about this weird love triangle or was it yesterday's news? Were two partners enough for the young beauty or were other men in Izgrev anchoring their ships in her bay of pleasure? Was Aleksieva such a femme fatale?

Could it all be false rumors?

I didn't light a fire. Decided to save the wood for the next night. Having to be sensible, show resilience and overcome adversity builds character.

I remembered this story about a cheapskate who cooked a huge pot of kidney bean stew. It was all he ate for several days, but the stew still went bad before he could finish it. He couldn't bring himself to throw away the food, so he forced himself to eat it. Consuming spoiled kidney beans wasn't particularly appetizing, so he poured himself a glass of rakia —for motivation. Come on, he told himself, just wolf the stew down and you can reward yourself with a drink. It was a battle, but he pushed through it and polished off the last of the stew. Now he could treat himself to some rakia. Then, just as he was raising the glass to his lips, his cheap nature interfered again. Well, he told himself, you had some kidney bean stew today, leave the rakia for tomorrow. Excess will only send you to an early grave. And he poured it back in the bottle.

Some human resources managers would do well to take a page out of his book. Others have long been practicing this approach. If I treated my situation the same way, I would make it until the morning without the heat of fire.

At some point it got really cold. I did jumping jacks and squats, waved and clapped my hands to get warm. I could do this routine until the first rays of spring shone on me in several months. All I needed to survive was for someone to come by once in a while and toss me a grilled chicken drumstick or two through the bars.

Why did Zorro have to lock me up in an abandoned water treatment plant? He could have imprisoned me in some equally abandoned textile factory full of wool fabrics or traditional Bulgarian blankets. I wouldn't have minded one of those bakeries for éclairs filled with pastry cream either. Once, I spent four days in a confectionery factory without anyone finding me out. That experience cured me of my sweet tooth.

***

It rained all night. And through the morning.

I just lay and lay there. At one point I got up to stretch my legs. That brick bed was enough to turn even the most incorrigible bohemian into a hermit.

My attention was drawn to the thoughts etched into the walls or scribbled with charcoal. Most of them were not so much clever as they were entertaining in an illiterate kind of way. Some messages were downright touching, brimming with the authors' burning desire to announce their yearnings to the world.

I thought of the story about the guy who could write "I love you!" with his piss in the snow. A friend of mine had told me about him many years ago. As she had wisely noted at the time, any man with such remarkable control over his penis was quite the catch. Many beautiful women fall for piss-poor guys, go figure.

I added several pieces of wisdom on the wall to put my imprint next to the local artists and went back to bed. If someone came for me, it would be in the morning. If no one showed up by noon, I would have to accept that there weren't going to be any visitors.

I had no idea what time it was. I tried to at least figure out what day of the week it was. It was Sunday when those two hobos got drunk on wine on the Lozenets beach. The following night I slept in that infernal abandoned bar. I got arrested on Tuesday. Then came the lighthouse and the car shop episodes. Zorro released me from my second stint in the holding cell on Wednesday and I went back to the car shop. That night I almost froze to death in the woods and then went back to the gas station and Veronica early on Thursday morning. Around noon Zorro brought me to the water treatment plant and locked me up.

So today was Friday. It was only five days since I had left the Lozenets beach, but it felt like five weeks.

I thought of another story. That one was very reminiscent of my current plight.

Some poor soul got sentenced to death and thrown behind bars. He was warned that, as an ancient unwritten rule mandated, his executioners would come to carry out the sentence when he least expected it.

What idiots, the poor sap thought to himself. I'll just sit in my cell and wait for them all day. That way, they won't be able to execute me for fear of breaking the rule. It's simple—I'll wait for them the whole day on Monday, then the whole day on Tuesday, Wednesday and so on. I'll always be expecting them, so they won't have the chance to kill me. He was giddy with joy, and he was so sure that his clever plan would work that when the executioners came on the second day he was truly caught off guard.

### 33.

Zorro came late that afternoon.

This time he was alone. He unlocked the door and snuck into the room with his gun pulled out. I expected him to start asking questions or throwing insults at me, but Zorro was silent. With the barrel of the gun, he motioned for me to get out of his way and go stand by the wall. Then he holstered the gun and lit a cigarette. He wasn't talking, wasn't looking at me, just smoking and absentmindedly weaving his way through the trash dotting the floor.

His hands had been shaking lighting the cigarette. He had this distant look on his face.

This wasn't the same arrogant, cunning police inspector who had questioned me in his office several days earlier. He wasn't even the deflated Zorro of yesterday. I was looking at a spineless clone.

What on earth had happened?

Had Christina Aleksieva told the big bosses on him?

This man clearly didn't know how to lose. Another trait of self-involved psychopaths. Their uncanny ability to move the chess pieces on the board helps them stay in control of everything. So losing is not something they do. Which weirdly works to their disadvantage—because it slows down their reflexes, dulls their senses, lulls their intuition to sleep and ultimately makes them lose touch with reality.

The human factor is unpredictable. A random act can undermine and even shatter the whole illusionary order of that whole illusionary world built by the self-involved psycho.

Daniel Slavov's behavior screamed that his end was near. Not in the sense that he would die or disappear or anything like that. No. The end was near for this version of Daniel Slavov. He was about to change, adapt and evolve. Perhaps for the better. For some, pain is an opportunity to grow and become better. Others simply grow bitter. It all depends on the stuff you are made of.

I just hoped he wouldn't decide to shoot me in the meantime. He looked unhinged.

His phone went off somewhere in his pockets, but Zorro didn't even bother to check the caller ID. The phone started blowing up, a new call every two-three minutes. Things were quickly heading south. It didn't help that I was standing by the wall, facing an armed man who had clearly become a loose cannon.

Then it hit me: Zorro wasn't here to hurt me. He had come to be a prisoner. Not that he was someone who would accept his fate and give himself in. No, it was more that he was punishing himself—not to suffer as some kind of atonement, but to recharge by going through a cathartic experience, an internal struggle, or whatever tormented him at the moment.

I imagined Christina Aleksieva realizing that she was alone against him and deciding to risk it all on one shot. She probably found a way to let him know that his days were numbered—at least where the Ministry of Interior system was concerned. She did it to provoke him, push him to make a mistake.

Daniel Slavov found out that his every move was being watched and went berserk. Someone like him would stay prepared for a stab in the back, probably dispatched traitors pretty efficiently. But getting betrayed by the system would have blindsided him. The police keeping tabs on him? The same system he had dedicated his life to? Even his lover's role as a Trojan horse couldn't have been that insulting to him. He must have felt so disoriented that... I could understand his anguish, to a certain extent, but I wasn't feeling sorry for him.

Zorro had come here to shut the world out. No one would ever think to look for him at a decommissioned water treatment plant. If they were looking for him.

He was in his own world and it was tumbling down. I really wanted to ask him a question, but I didn't think he would hear me. He was in the doldrums, so to speak. Which created an opening for me.

I edged to the left, careful not to attract his attention. Then a bit more and a bit more. In a few minutes I was at the door. Now came the hardest part—opening it and darting outside. There was no elegant way to do it. The door was too heavy. If my calculations were correct, it would take me two seconds to push it far enough out to squeeze through the crack. Maybe three seconds. Zorro was about twenty steps away from me on the other side of the room. Pulling his gun out, racking its slide and raising it would cost him at least a second. It was getting dark. Taking good aim at me would eat up another second. Firing three-four shots was a third second. If none of the bullets got me, I would be out of there. The inspector would chase after me, at which point the open yard of the water treatment plant would not work in my favor. Even in the thickening darkness outside, the police chief was liable to have excellent aim. I would have to be really fast to get to the gate and climb over it before Zorro got me with a precise shot. I figured there wouldn't be any of the mandatory "Stop or I'll shoot!" shouts.

I had to act now. Before he emerged from his daze or some other unpleasant Izgrev fella got here.

It didn't play out how I had imagined it.

Daniel Slavov didn't react at all.

There were no bullets, no shouts, no chasing.

I went out the door and made a run for it.

In my heightened state of awareness, all I could hear was the wild heartbeat drumming in my ears. I jumped over the three steps in the concrete platform lining that side of the building and dashed through the yard. I had barely taken five or six steps when a pair of headlights beamed at me. I wasn't fully in their glare because the car was just turning into the yard. But it would be parking outside the building in mere seconds. I could keep running and flash in front of the headlight beams like a wild animal on the run. The problem was I didn't know who was in the car, which made things unpredictable. I scuttled backward to the building. I peeked at the newcomer just for a moment before I crouched down and focused on controlling my breathing.

The car pulled up next to Zorro's white Opel and Zachary climbed out of the driver's seat. He turned on a flashlight and went into the dark building. I wished I could close the door behind him and lock the two in there. Better yet, I wish I had a working blowtorch to weld the door to the doorframe. The two police officers would have a splendid vacation inside until some lost lumberjack or hobo found them—or their bodies. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. I was left with hoping they would go away and leave me alone. I crept closer to one of the barred openings in the wall, aka windows.

"Daniel?" Zachary called out. "Are you here?"

"Turn off that flashlight," Slavov returned quietly. "I'm here."

Zachary pointed the flashlight in the direction of the inspector's voice, then lowered it without switching it off.

"Where's that guy?" Zachary asked, checking the room. "Did you let him go?"

"He ran away."

"What do you mean he ran away?"

"He snuck out while I had my back to him."

Zachary looked around as if struggling to believe that someone could have broken out of the place they had converted into a prison.

"I'm afraid I have bad news," Zachary said after an awkward pause.

"What is it?"

"Aleksieva..."

"What about her?"

"They've found her body."

"What?!"

Bastards!

Fucking bastards!

Sons of bitches!

They had killed her too.

Deep down, I had known that that was coming. I sensed it the moment I saw Daniel Slavov slam his hands on the steering wheel, venting his anger at the bitch he had loved. The same premonition had been there last night as I listened to her trying to talk me into acing Zorro.

But the whole time I'd thought I was seeing ghosts. I'd tried to put it down to my pessimistic nature.

I remembered the inspector instructing Zachary to be convincing with the beautiful policewoman. So that was what he had meant. What's more convincing than death?

They were going to stop at nothing. Maybe it was inappropriate and selfish, but at this very moment I became truly afraid for my own life for the first time since I had set foot in Izgrev. No matter how crappy it was.

Daniel Slavov "The Paranoid".

If yesterday I had agreed to take him out, Aleksieva wouldn't have ended up dead. Although the result would have still been one dead cop and one alive. Hard to say which scenario was better for mankind.

Fucking bastards!

To Zachary the bad news wasn't that Aleksieva was no longer among the living, but that her dead body had been found. As if the grizzled cop had hoped that her corpse would never be discovered.

Zorro stood there, still and silent, for a while, then turned away and buried his face in his hands. His entire body was wracked by sobs. Zachary was patiently waiting out the sniveling emotional outburst.

Slavov finally looked up, his eyes swimming with grief. This man really had serious psychological issues. He had personally punched Aleksieva's ticket to the afterlife and now he was wasting away, tormented by anguish. I could understand him playing to an audience, but Zorro didn't know that I was watching them. It was just him and Zachary in the room. Maybe the intense pain had blindsided him. His emotions seemed real.

"How did it happen?"

"She probably fell off the rocks near Fisherman's Bay. The sea was pretty rough this morning."

"Fisherman's Bay?" Daniel Slavov perked up and wiped his nose with a black handkerchief. "She used to jog there."

"With so many parks and tracks around here, she couldn't find a better place to jog?"

"She always went there."

"Even in bad weather? It rained all through the night?"

"I warned her that someday she would slip and break her legs."

Zachary glanced at the bricks I had arranged in a fireplace for a second before turning his attention back to Slavov.

"Actually, she broke her neck. She died instantly."

Zorro started crying again. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep the raw pain at bay. Grief was only just starting to eat at him. Soon to be followed by the insidious pangs of remorse for doing in one of his closest people, if not the person he loved the most. Months of sleepless nights and dark days were awaiting him. Then he would be left with nothing but his guilty conscious, until it too disappeared like spume on a windy day.

"She was a wonderful person," Zorro sobbed. "I'll miss her."

"Me too," Zachary agreed, just to say something. "God rest her soul."

No, no.

I had gotten it all wrong.

Zorro had not ordered Zachary to kill Christina Aleksieva. He had done it with his own hands. His motif wasn't practical or based on rational thought. He had gone mad with searing jealousy, and crimes of passion are always too personal to get third parties involved. Daniel Slavov had done the dirty work himself, which explained why he was completely distraught. Why he came here so shaken. Now he was feigning ignorance about the circumstances surrounding the death of his lover. As if trying to trick his own mind into believing he had nothing to do with it.

I had seen this behavior before—just once. A paranoid rich guy I used to work for ordered the murder of his own son. The boy had started doing heroin and lifting whatever he could from the family home to barter it for a dose or two. Some little slut had sniffed out his weakness and was preying on him, blowing through his daddy's cash. Well, daddy ordered his hounds—in front of me, without batting an eye, no sign of regret—to do away with both the girl and the boy. After that, he wailed for weeks, mourning the untimely death of his sweet boy. He believed his own theatrics too.

Eventually, I left that house to get away from his hypocritical howling. But that tragedy was forever etched in my memory. And here I was, watching another maniac in action. This phenomenon would make a great material for some psychiatrist's doctoral thesis.

That was it.

Daniel Slavov was playing a role, putting on a show for both Zachary and himself. Zachary wasn't acting, though.

Also, Zachary wasn't born yesterday and knew that if he wasn't the one who had sent Aleksieva to meet her creator, the only other person capable of doing it was his boss. He wasn't buying that bullshit about her slipping and falling off the rocks while enjoying her morning jog.

Daniel Slavov blew his nose into the black handkerchief and proceeded to sniffle. Zachary walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's go."

"Go where?" Zorro seemed to shrivel up as if the very thought of leaving this place was terrifying to him.

"To the lair."

"I don't want to go there."

"Get a grip. Wheatear has called me three times already."

"Tell him he can go to hell."

"I'll do that. Now let's go."

Zachary waited for Zorro to head to the exit and followed him. I went around the building and skulked in the shadow of the concrete platform, near the heavy metal door. The grizzled cop slammed the door closed, squeezing the flashlight under one armpit, and fiddled with the lock for quite a bit. He put away the key, pulled his gun out and slowly scanned the field. He had a nose for this kind of stuff, the old-timer.

I could let them leave and wait until everything was quiet to get over the fence. But for some reason I felt the urge to literary wring their necks. Crush Daniel Slavov's windpipe.

I tossed a round stone to a spot several steps to the right of Zachary and the policeman reacted swiftly. He turned toward the noise, assuming a shooting position with his knees slightly bent and his gun raised. The second stone hit him in the head. That's a street fight rule—you eliminate the bigger threat first. Zachary collapsed in a heap at the door, but not before firing a shot. The bullet was nowhere near the mark because the barrel was pointing in the general direction of the treetops. The two keys hanging on a piece of twine clanged onto the concrete platform and the gun fell with a thunk, still in the officer's now slackened grip. Zorro took one look at the body of his henchman, turned toward me, even though he probably couldn't see me in the dark, and took aim.

Bang! Bang! Bang...

The barrel of his gun was spitting white flames. I took cover around the corner of the building before a bullet could take my head off. I counted ten or eleven shots. The echo of the last one hitting the yard fence faded away, replaced by silence. I prayed that Zorro didn't have a spare clip or think of grabbing Zachary's gun.

I counted to three in my head and after nothing happened I jumped out from around the corner and pounced on Daniel Slavov. My daring attack obviously caught him flatfooted because he didn't even put his hands up to protect himself. We fell in a tangle on the concrete platform and started grappling. My face scraped against pieces of bricks, my shaved head bounced off the crumbling concrete a couple of times. Even in his messed-up, dazed state, Slavov had his fighting skills on point. I managed to land four, maybe five punches on his cheeks and nose. But he was doing better than me—using both hands and feet. Unless he got impaled on a reinforcement steel bar or a broken bottle, he was about to gain the upper hand in our scuffle. I was hitting him repeatedly, but my fists were coming from a short distance and didn't pack that much of a punch. Zorro managed to lock me in some wrestling hold. He sat on my chest and with his free hand picked up a brick or a big stone. I couldn't see much in the dark. He was raising it high above his head when a bright light spilled into the yard, revealing his weapon as a green wine bottle. His face was smeared with blood. A rough voice shouted "stop", followed by the sharp sound of a gunshot. The hand of the police chief froze in the air for a moment and then dropped to his side. The wine bottle clattered onto the platform as Zorro stood up and wiped pieces of dried whitewash, concrete and fired clay off his suit.

"Stay where you are, don't move!" the rough voice instructed.

I turned toward the voice. Four bright beams singed my eyesight. The light was bluish and came from the headlights of two cars. I couldn't see anyone, but I knew there were at least two, maybe three people in the dark behind the headlights. I hadn't even registered the moment of their arrival, that was how locked in on fighting Zorro I had been. He had probably been equally preoccupied with the thought of thrashing me. He looked down to avoid the blinding glare of the headlights, a sinister smile stretched his lips and he kicked me in the face so viciously that my world instantly went dark.

### 34.

At first, I was in a fog. I was seeing double, hearing double. Only my sense of smell wasn't playing tricks on me. No, it was delivering an emphatic dose of painful reality with every breath I took. The air was filled with the smell of dead swans. There was only one place I had caught this particularly heady odor in the past few weeks: in the Izgrev lighthouse. As my eyes started to come into focus, I could make out the surreal flights of stairs winding up the walls. Every six seconds they got lit up by pale, ghostly light. There wasn't a shadow of a doubt: I was back in the lighthouse on the rocks.

The nauseating smell didn't seem to bother the others.

Whey was standing several steps away and to my right. His back was turned to me, but I knew it was him. His adjutants weren't there—maybe there was an IQ threshold for getting in on this party. Zorro was gesticulating and generally throwing a fit to my left. He was talking heatedly, but the words were unintelligible in my ears.

Three dark, mute silhouettes were lined up along the wall behind him like members of the famous Chinese Terracotta Army. The difference was these guys were perfectly alive, not made of clay. Also, they looked nothing like Chinese warriors and every bit as a certain type of Bulgarians—big, thick, muscled and wearing mean expressions. Biceps and Triceps weren't among them either. These guys were the real-deal, high-caliber Burgas mobsters. They were beefy, broad everywhere and sporting short haircuts and small eyes. Biceps would look puny next to those physical specimens. My guess was that each of them had driven here in his own vehicle because if they ever travelled by two, the frame and the suspension system would break down.

A shorter man in the center of the small room stood out with his trim physique and light-colored clothes. He was the one talking to Daniel Slavov. For a second I imagined the two of them pulling out a chessboard and sitting for a game of chess—the Black Knight against the White Knight. Just the two of them, like men.

Instead, Zorro was blabbering on and on.

"...so I had no chance to react."

This was the Slavov I knew. He had clearly pulled himself together because his voice sounded as usual—angry, but under control. The other voice, however, sounded even angrier:

"I didn't come all the way from Burgas to hear about your nervous breakdowns."

"If you had just waited until tomorrow, you wouldn't have had to come."

"I waited enough."

I was sitting with my back against the wall. My sleeves had a little bit of everything on them—mud, dust, oil stains and blood. My pants had a lot of everything.

The big terracotta warriors weren't even glancing at me, but I knew that any sudden move would cost me physical pain. And a nasty fracture or two.

Zorro was pacing back and forth as he was talking, so now he was on the opposite side of the tiny room, facing me. The guy in the light-colored clothing was standing between us, his back to me.

"I'll admit that things have not been going smoothly here..." Zorro began. "But there's light at the..."

"Smoothly? Are you high? Do you have any idea what's going on here?"

Daniel Slavov took a deep breath and nodded:

"Yes, there were some incidents, but..."

"Murders, you snorkel, murders!"

"Some things cannot be anticipated."

"Man, just shut up, you're talking nonsense," the guy in the light-colored clothes turned toward me and I could finally see his face. Well, if that wasn't Milen Stoyanov! The flush guy with the white SUV whom I had dubbed Signore Armani because of his fancy style. The man I had helped change a flat tire. This time he was wearing his sunglasses as a tiara in his curly, glossy black hair.

But what was a sophisticated man like him doing with all these criminals?

"All you had to do was ensure safe passage for those gentlemen," Signore Armani continued. "What is it that you couldn't anticipate exactly?"

"That some impostors would show up," Slavov said and moved to stand before me.

"You're the impostors! Do you even know why they slipped past you?"

"Unfortunate sequence of events or..."

"Because," Milen Stoyanov interrupted Zorro again, "instead of keeping their eyes open, those cunts of yours were busy arguing with the border guards."

"First of all, they're not mine, they're Wheatear's, and second..."

Martin let out a laugh.

"Who's running this town, man? Wheatear?"

Daniel Slavov reached in his suit jacket pocket and the terracotta warriors next to me tensed. The boys had surely searched us before depositing us in the lighthouse, but they had certain reflexes drilled into them, occupational hazard. They were always on the lookout for someone trying to pull out a tiny gun and start a shooting spree. But the chief of police pulled out only a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

"I had instructed them to..."

"Obviously you didn't do a good job of instructing them. Where did you get these rednecks from?"

"I'm working with the best that this town has left to offer."

Milen Stoyanov also started pacing the stuffy room. He and Zorro looked like a couple of jittery lions cramped in a cage much too small for them.

"You screwed up royally, old man. Do you realize that?"

"What's the big deal? I'm not going to freak out over some Arab nobodies."

"You got that wrong! You're clueless. Do you even know what we're talking about here?"

"Yes. An organized crime group that security agencies have been following for months."

"Slavov, you're an absolute goner!"

"Maybe."

"You have three dead bodies and one guy in the hospital. And you had four guys to protect."

"Fine. The Arabs are dead, the operation was botched, some paper-pusher high on the Ministry of Interior pecking order may be ticked off, but that's not the end of the world. Life goes on."

"You might be the only one who is yet to figure out that those people were a bit more special. Did my coming down here from Burgas to brief you before the operation not give you a hint about how serious this was?"

"I didn't get why you were all hot and bothered over some falafels. I still don't!"

"Those falafels, especially one of them, were distinguished figures in their country."

"What country? Islamic State perhaps?"

"Even if that was the case..."

"Tell me they weren't terrorists! Throw me a bone here!"

"Let's just say they were good managers."

Managers.

So drugging some poor wretch, strapping him in a bomb-laden vest and sending him off to blast a school bus was more complicated than it sounded. It required managerial skills.

I imagined someone describing Hitler and Stalin as good managers. The Larry Page and Sergey Brin of the Second World War. Why was I even surprised—political correctness could well reach such unthinkable heights someday.

"And what were they doing in Bulgaria? Don't tell me they came here to grow saffron," the inspector asked.

Milen Stoyanov undid the top button of his designer shirt. Was he stifling in here too? He rolled up his sleeves and smiled coldly.

"They were here on vacation."

"Excuse me?!"

Excuse me?! That was the dumbest thing I had ever heard. Distinguished terrorists vacationing in Bulgaria in November. Ho-ho-ho! Now I wanted to meet the travel agent who sold them their vacation packages, with a small-group discount, no doubt. Maybe he offered excursions to their homeland as well. Take advantage of our best deals for an unforgettable Christmas in Iraq or Syria—five nights in a countless-star hotel for the price of four. "Countless-star" as in sleeping under the stars.

"What you heard," Milen Stoyanov answered simply.

"Seems we spoilt their vacation just a smidge."

"That's the problem! You were supposed to protect, not kill them."

"Attaboy!" Zorro laughed. "So now the security agencies are looking after criminals and murderers?"

"You don't get it," Milen Stoyanov said on a sigh. "As long as people like them use Bulgaria as a holiday destination, we don't have to worry about them doing damage here. And when some morons start killing distinguished representatives of... certain organizations, then those... certain organizations can be expected to respond in kind— by killing in their own particular manner. Can you imagine what may happen in Bulgaria, if they decide to retaliate? Can you even fathom this? And all this because of an idiot like you!"

Whoa there, buddy.

Such grand talk usually masks one motive: financial interest. Milen Stoyanov's words could be boiled down to: as long as people like them are willing to pay crazy money, people like me will be willing to take them. No patriotism, no ideals were involved here. It was all about business. So this was the inspiration behind Martin's pompous patriotic speeches. He'd had a good teacher.

I still couldn't figure out who Milen Stoyanov was—a leader in the underworld or a high-ranking agent of the security services or both. But he sure acted like someone capable of selling his beloved pet if that got him a nice profit. So when he got a whiff of the money of those terrorists, or whatever they were... woo boy. This deal was about way more than chump change. I was certain that Milen Stoyanov had arranged for the Arabs to have a lavish holiday and enjoy all the comforts of modern lifestyle that no amount of money could buy in the desert.

"I bet everyone and their grandmother knows that you took the Arabs out," Milen Stoyanov said.

"Actually, it was Martin's people who took them out."

"Shut up! And get rid of that cigarette!"

Signore Armani turned to Whey.

"Let's hear what you were arguing about with the border guards."

"Well, they didn't want to..."

"Don't tell me. Tell it to Mr. Slavov here."

Whey turned as if executing an inaudible command "right face" and shrugged.

"Well... they didn't want to pay."

"Pay for what exactly?" Milen Stoyanov prompted.

"We got wind that they'd pocketed ten grand for the package. And we... we were promised only two grand. We reckoned that was unfair."

"Who reckoned that?"

"Well... I did."

Signore Armani stepped in front of Zorro and bared his teeth in a nasty smile.

"They brawled. They brawled like complete idiots while someone was kidnapping the Arabs they were supposed to protect!" he gritted out.

"I'll deal with this later," Daniel Slavov nodded.

"Nah!" Milen Stoyanov stepped back and shook his head. "That ship has sailed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You no longer have my trust."

"What? Are you serious?"

"My man, look at the mess you've created!" Milen Stoyanov had sweat stains under his armpits even though his shirt was fine and he had no jacket on. "You've really shat the bed. It's been one slip-up after another! You went rogue, making decisions you weren't authorized to make. You started your own investigation into the case without informing anyone. And to top it all, your personal and professional lives are all mixed-up. You're becoming unpredictable and dangerous."

Daniel Slavov opened his mouth to say something, but Signore Armani wasn't finished. He raised a hand to stop him and went on:

"I know you have friends in the Ministry of Interior. They are the ones saving your ass right now. I can promise you that you'll live to see July Morning . But that's all. You'll step down immediately and disappear, unless you want war."

"You're making this up, trying to set me up!"

"I'm making this up? First, you botch the event of the year and lose the Arabs. Then your people let that bastard the killer get away, even though you vowed to bring him to me. To me personally! Then you do Martin in," Milen Stoyanov took a deep breath. "I had a lot of money invested in him."

"You invested in Martin?" Zorro sounded offended that he hadn't been the project.

"Martin was supposed to win the local elections next autumn. Do you actually think these things happen without money?"

Izgrev was increasingly starting to resemble some amalgamation of Sodom and Gomorrah. I considered the plan—Martin, financed by Milen Stoyanov, becomes mayor and proceeds to clear the streets of Whey and Daniel Slavov and their people, who also appeared to answer to Milen Stoyanov.

I had heard about this economic model. A major party like the Bulgarian Socialist Party, for example, makes three of its people—three of its trusted favorites—players in the same field of business. Whoever of the three keeps his head above the water continues to grow, while the rest fade into oblivion. This is very similar to the strategy used by investment funds—money is poured into many projects, with the awareness that only one of them is likely to bring good return on its investment, because it is not immediately clear which one will be successful. Even if only one project turns out to be profitable, the investment is paid back and the risk pays off.

"Let's say I can find it in me to forgive you for those two," Milen Stoyanov waved dismissively. "Not a big loss. Christina, on the other hand..."

"The bitch was sticking her nose into my business," Daniel Slavov's voice notably rose in volume. "She was snooping around, listening in and reporting everything to that bunch of patriots! Even classified information. She had been spying on me the whole time."

"You chump! What patriots?!"

"Martin was the leader of the Patriotic Forum."

"I know who is what around here. So what?"

"Aleksieva worked for them, that's what!"

"Idiot! Aleksieva was my informer!"

"She was?"

"Duh!"

It took me a minute to digest this information.

Her visit to the water treatment plant had left me with the impression that her internal investigation into Daniel Slavov had been police business. But it had been Milen Stoyanov's idea, his operation. Aleksieva had been his agent, sent to keep an eye on Zorro—not because of Slavov's moral decline, but because he was becoming unreliable as a business partner, or whatever the connection was.

Zorro also needed a moment to process the news. "But she was Martin's lover!" he finally managed to mumble, as if that was a cardinal sin.

"Did you say something?" Milen Stoyanov asked distractedly, taking the phone that one of the terracotta warriors was handing him. He turned to Daniel Slavov, "Huh?"

"Aleksieva was Martin's lover."

Signore Armani looked up from the phone screen and snickered. The beefy thugs joined him. The snickers became guffaws, which turned into gales of laughter.

"Are you serious, Slavov? Unreal!"

"What?!"

"Christina—Martin's lover! You're killing me!"

"I have proof."

Milen Stoyanov suddenly went quiet and walked over to Zorro.

"Martin was gay, my man. The whole world knows that."

### 35.

Zorro looked like someone had stolen his service pistol. He was looking around helplessly as if seeking support from his associates. But there were only six other people in the lighthouse: Whey, Milen, the three bruisers and I. No one was dying to be an associate of Daniel Slavov at this moment.

"Martin...," Zorro mumbled confused. "How's that possible?"

"It just is."

All the excitement of the evening seemed to finally catch up with the police chief. Completely thrown off balance, he stammered out:

"This c-can't be t-true! You d-don't know h-how..."

"Everyone from here to Burgas knows that Martin was a pansy, except you, apparently!" Signore Armani moved away from Zorro as if the guy had leprosy. "It only goes to show just how out of touch you've become."

Daniel Slavov seemed to have unplugged from reality. He was relapsing into the same state he was in back at the abandoned water treatment plant.

Milen Stoyanov threw him a look filled with disappointment and turned his attention to Whey.

"Wheatear, tell me at least you are still right in the head."

"I hope so."

"I need someone in Izgrev I can trust. Someone local."

"You know that you can always count on..."

"Do you want to take over the business?"

Wheatear was at a loss for words, which wasn't exactly a sharp deterioration in skill considering how articulate he was to begin with.

"I?"

Business.

The kind of business to get into on the Black Sea coast wasn't hotel construction or restaurant interior design. Around these parts, the best ways to make money, real money were drugs, prostitution, contraband, security and taxi services, racketeering and even smuggling of refugees. Local businessmen could satisfy every whim of the big bosses in the capital—from a kilo of freshly caught turbot to twenty thousand votes in the next elections. And since the local entrepreneurs lacked imagination, Izgrev steadily becoming the city of their dreams meant a cesspool of cheap entertainment for drunken, promiscuous Brits and Scandinavians willing to debase themselves for the next ecstasy pill.

Understandably, that reality did not sit well with patriotic and naïve Bulgarian taxpayers, however many of them were left in that part of the country. People like Shooter, for example. They had visions of Izgrev as an expensive, modern, prestigious resort for wealthy families from Western Europe. That dream was never going to come true.

Whey was still staring stupidly at Signore Armani. My guess was he actually grasped the situation, knew very well what was on the table and just couldn't believe his luck. Hence, the idiotic question:

"What business?"

"I want you to take the reins of bonito fishing."

Whey's face fell and he looked on the verge of tears.

"Are you serious?"

"I'm joking, man," Milen patted him on the shoulder. "Of course, I'm talking about our main business."

"I...that is, I thought that..."

"Stop with the thinking and tell me if you can do the job."

"I can."

"All right. If you show me some good results, I'll make you the exclusive distributor for Izgrev and Lozenets."

The phone in Armani's hand lit up and he checked the screen.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, I have to take this call."

He went outside, allowing a welcomed whiff of fresh, cold air carrying the smell of seaweed to steal in.

Whey barely waited for the door to close to start hassling Zorro.

"Listen to him, Daniel. Don't try to fight him. You know how powerful he is. He'll destroy us without breaking a sweat."

Daniel Slavov was shaking his head as if rejecting every word. But the thug in his ear was relentless:

"The guy is a damn former State Security agent laundering money for the Russian mafia. You want a dick measuring contest with those types?"

Still shaking his head, Daniel Slavov looked at Whey and then the silent terracotta warriors before following the winding steps with his eyes all the way up to the top of the lighthouse.

"Step away if that's what he wants," the thug said, determined like a dog with a bone. "To hell with it, let it be his way. I'll take over the business, but we'll still be in this thing together."

"It's over Wheatear," Daniel Slavov said with a faint smile. "It's all over."

"No, this is just the beginning."

"No, this is the end."

Zorro hung his head and seemed to tune out Whey, who was rattling on about their bright future and painting pretty pictures of it.

The door opened again and Milen Stoyanov walked in ushered by another dose of fresh, salty air. He wore a smile.

"Well, gentlemen, it's time for me to go. Is everything clear?"

"There's one more problem," said Daniel Slavov. He was hunched, his shoulders stooped. Maybe his hands were shaking again so he had folded his arms to hide the telltale sign.

"What's that?" Signore Armani put the phone in the outstretched hand of the same bruiser who'd handed it to him earlier. "What is that problem precisely?"

"You!" Zorro roared and a small gun glinted in his now fully extended right arm. It looked like one of those toys they put in bags of corn puffs as prizes or like an over-the-top lighter. But it was a real nine-millimeter gun.

So much for patting down. Apparently no one had gone to the trouble of searching us for weapons. Big mistake.

Milen Stoyanov froze in his place and his smile vanished. But he kept his composure.

"Put this thing down, Daniel. Someone could get hurt."

"That's the idea."

Zorro started to retreat so he could see the bruisers lined up along the wall better. I had no clue what his idea was exactly, but everyone in the room new they had a stalemate on their hands. At least two of the bruisers had pulled out their weapons—I could see them behind their backs. They were ready to pump him full of lead and just waited for a signal from their boss. But Milen Stoyanov was set on handling the police chief alone and without resorting to violence. Maybe he was trying to save Slavov's life. Despite everything.

"Put the gun down. There's no need to be melodramatic here."

You have to know when the fight is over. If you lose, you lose and that's it. You walk away from the ring, nursing what's left of your dignity and go lick your wounds. Just like night always gives way to day and darkness to light, people don't stay at rock bottom forever, they bounce back eventually.

But Daniel Slavov had skipped one of life's important lessons—before you can figure out how to win, you need to learn how to lose. And he paid for it with his life.

Whey jumped on the inspector and punched him in the face from behind. The hit was so powerful that Zorro's head snapped to the side like a balloon picked up by a gust of wind. The ghastly crunching sound that accompanied the blow sealed the fate of the Izgrev police chief. Daniel Slavov was dead even before his black-clad body hit the ground, his neck broken.

The gun slipped out of his lifeless fingers and clattered at the feet of Milen Stoyanov. He bent down, picked it up and heaved a sigh of relief.

"One headache fewer. Thank you Wheatear."

Whey was conflicted about it. He was close to tears. It was obvious that Zorro had meant a lot to him. But in life-or-death situations, it's every man for himself. And Whey had done what was best for him.

"Welcome to the family, Wheatear," Signore Armani walked over to the thug, shook his hand and gave him a hug. "You're one of us now."

"Thank you, Mr. Stoyanov."

"There's nothing to thank me for."

Whey was beaming. He probably thought he should kiss the hand of the big dog. He even kneeled—either that or he was exhausted from all the standing around. Then again, he might have thought it a good idea to kiss his new boss's ass. Out of sheer joy. He was part of the big leagues now.

But Milen Stoyanov had more games in mind.

"Wheatear... I want you to do something for me. Let's call it a final test."

"Yes?"

"Take this gun and shoot yourself," Martin handed Whey the tiny handgun. "If you have the guts."

"What are you saying?"

"I took the rounds out. There may be one left or not. I don't know. But if you're not prepared to die for me, then you're not prepared to live for me."

"What are you saying?"

"If you don't want to, that's your decision. You can say no. But that would mean that you don't trust me. And if you don't trust me, we can't work together."

Bastard.

He was probably proud of his clever idea. It was inspired, really. Reminded me of medieval witch-hunt. Just walk through that fire, dear, and if you survive that means you're a witch and we'll have to stone you to death. But if you happen to die in the fire, we'll make sure to bury you in the Christian tradition. Think carefully before you make your decision.

Whey didn't even stop to think. He grabbed the gun from Milen Stoyanov's hand, put it to his head and pulled the trigger. The report wasn't loud, but I instinctively closed my eyes. Something warm and sticky splattered my face, and when I opened my eyes part of Whey's face was missing. His body listed to one side and thudded to the concrete floor.

Milen Stoyanov regarded the dead thug with the same disappointment he had spared for Zorro a few minutes ago.

"Pathetic!"

He turned to his bruisers and gave them a malicious sneer.

"Did you hear me tell him to aim for his head?"

One of the bully boys returned the smile:

"I shot myself in the foot. You remember?"

"How can I forget? You're still limping."

Whey turned out to be a complete moron. More of a moron than even Biceps. Even the most cutthroat mafia in the world, Yakuza, punishes its members by cutting off pinkies. Shooting people in the head and beheadings are not how these organizations operate. Not to mention that Whey hadn't done anything to deserve punishment, just the opposite.

"Clean up this place!" Milen Stoyanov stepped over Whey's body and headed toward me. "It's time to wrap things up here."

The bruisers sprung to action, doing some housekeeping. They covered the floor in plastic and took out all sorts of instruments I would have rather not seen. They operated like a well-oiled machine, their movements confident and precise, which suggested they had done this before. And their level of preparation meant they had expected a gruesome end to the evening.

Milen Stoyanov hadn't come to ask Whey and Zorro questions—why, if and what. He had come to take them out. He had the looks of a model, but he wasn't playing around.

Milen Stoyanov crouched before me and studied mе with curiosity, probably trying to analyze my appearance. And what he saw couldn't be pleasant.

"And you, buddy, what's your deal?"

"Even I don't know anymore."

"Your next words will determine your fate."

I had to get his attention. I was running through options in my head, each one crazier and more eccentric than the one before. Somehow I didn't think he would appreciate my sense of humor. It was an acquired taste. So I decided to bet on a classical choice, the truth.

"I'm the good Samaritan who called 112 that night."

As far as I could remember, the information about a witness calling the emergency number was never publicly disclosed. The police officers were probably made aware of the call, but besides them only I and the lone surviving Arab knew about it. That ought to make Armani's perk up.

"Daniel told me the same thing, but I don't believe you're that guy."

Is that so?

Come on!

All those hounding me in Izgrev were totally convinced that I was that same guy, so this whole time I'd had to repeatedly and fiercely deny it. And now that I finally came clean, the person before me didn't believe me.

Well, all right, then, listen to this.

"I was asleep in the abandoned beach bar. I woke up to voices quarreling and then heard six shots. When the dust settled, I went outside to investigate and discovered three bodies. But the fourth guy was still alive and conscious. I called 112 from his phone. It was one of those old models, with buttons. While I was searching his suit jacket pockets for it, I found a passport with an eagle on the cover. He tried to push money in my hands to make me stay and help him. But when I saw the ambulances, I ran away to avoid getting dragged into the investigation. I found myself in Izgrev. Then those two gentlemen got ahold of me," I pointed to the two bodies over which the bruisers were fussing. "Things went downhill from there."

Milen Stoyanov didn't interrupt me at any point, as if he was listening to a riveting bedtime story. As I was describing the events of the past few days for the first time, they didn't sound nearly as bad or as interesting as they'd felt in my head. I had wasted five days of my life in Izgrev for that?

"That was a convincing story," Signore Armani said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Although my instinct tells me I should get rid of you right now."

I wasn't making a dent. He looked like a man who had a mind of his own. If he felt I was bullshitting him, no amount of talk would convince him otherwise. My life was in his hands, left to the mercy of his goodwill. And trusting the goodwill of a mobster of this caliber was like hoping to squeeze water from a rock.

Milen Stoyanov smiled faintly, but it was a cold smile.

"You don't strike me as someone who would rush to the rescue."

And then I remembered that the bill the Arab had given me was still stuffed in the pack of chewing gum in my pocket. That ought to do the trick.

"I have proof."

"What kind of proof?"

"It's in my jacket pocket. A pack of gum."

"A pack of gum? That's your proof?"

"No. There's something else inside."

Martin gave me a suspicious look and called one of the bully boys over. He gave him the gist of our conversation and the guy reached in my jacket pocket. He pulled out the few personal items I had and dumped them on the floor. He took the pack of gum and tore it open. The bill fell on the dusty concrete and the big guy picked it up with two fingers. He unfolded it and handed it to Milen, who started examining it as if it was a treasure map.

"The wounded Arab gave me this to make me stay", I explained. "Those dark stains are his blood."

"May I keep it?"

"Of course," I said charitably, as if I had the option to deny his request...

"And what is this?" Milen asked, suddenly more animated. "Why do you have it?"

He had discovered his own business card.

"You gave it to me."

"I did?! When, where?"

"When I changed the flat tire of your white Audi."

The eyes of Milen Stoyanov grew almost imperceptibly wider for a split second before they went back to normal.

"So that was you!"

"Yes, that was me."

That wasn't enough to completely change his idea of me, but at least it gave him a new perspective on the situation.

"You look like a different guy."

It wasn't until I heard this remark that it hit me—I'd had a full head of hair at our previous meeting. Maybe that was why Signore Armani hadn't recognized me sooner.

"I struck out with a scissors-happy hairdresser."

Milen gave me another one of his humorless smiles. Perhaps he was trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. It was a tall order—even I couldn't believe everything that had happened to me.

He turned around to check on how his men were doing. Daniel Slavov and Whey were already packaged, partially dismembered to fit in the plastic bags, I imagined.

"You have very little time."

This sounded eerily similar to Slavov's you have to leave Izgrev within a half hour. This time I was going to accept the offer, or there was a chance I was never leaving this place. I was this close to settling outside town, building myself a cane-reed shack and spending my days fishing for mackerel and growing fig-trees. The only problem was I had little friends around these parts.

Even with two of the most prominent Izgrev residents out of the picture, there were at least two more enemies of mine roaming the streets—Zachary and Biceps. Triceps would probably just look emotional and chuckle if he saw me, but he was still among my enemies. Strolling in Izgrev was still a life-threatening proposition for me. Which would only be relevant if I got out of the lighthouse alive. And that was far from a done deal.

"If you don't get more convincing, I'm going to have to end you," Milen Stoyanov threatened.

This man drove a hard bargain. I supposed that suspicion and mistrust were part and parcel of participating in his kind of teamwork.

"Give me something else to work with here, buddy. Try."

What more did he want? Was he about to put me through the trust test too? Were there any bullets left in that tiny gun?

"I have nothing else."

"What a pity."

I looked steadily into his eyes. Milen Stoyanov ruled the southern Black Sea coast. From Burgas to Rezovo, nothing happened without his say-so. It took smarts and guts to be in that position. He also had power, money, contacts, opportunities, powerful friends and powerful enemies. He probably owned entire neighborhoods, not to mention a stunning collection of cars; warehouses packed to the rafters with arms and ammunition; a whole battalion of warriors loyal to the bone and another one of devoted whores. As any true king, he had practically unlimited riches.

The only thing he didn't have was the murder weapon—the gun that Shooter had used to kill the Arabs. The evidence that would put a bow on the case.

"I can give you the murder weapon."

Signore Armani gave me a puzzled look.

"What makes you think I need it?"

"Because you strike me as someone who doesn't like loose ends."

"The investigation has been closed. The suspect made a full confession to the police. Everything is clear as day."

"Not if the murder weapon turns up in an armed robbery in Plovdiv one day."

That was true. It was one thing to pay a desperate gypsy to confess to a crime he didn't commit and then fool a corrupt prosecutor and a handful of gullible journalists that you had the real perpetrator. It was a completely different thing to try and bamboozle the "National Police" Main Directorate.

Milen Stoyanov seemed to agree with me—and Zorro—that it was best to keep the main directorate out of it.

"There's no way you have it on you."

"I didn't say it was on me, but I know where it is."

"And where is it?"

It was time to play my cards right.

"The same place where there may be two hundred grand stashed by Martin."

This time Milen Stoyanov's eyes grew visibly wider.

"Three hundred grand! That's how much I gave him."

"I found only two hundred. Sorry."

So Martin had cut a big chunk out of the election campaign budget. Maybe he had launched his bid for mayor early—posters, brochures, costumes and all that jazz.

"Where's the money?"

This was my last chance to ask for a helicopter and a briefcase full of small unmarked bills.

### 36.

I reckoned it was past midnight.

The car shop lay in darkness and quiet. We pulled up at the parking lot and the sounds of doors getting slammed shut echoed in the night. If it was summer, there would at least have been crickets chirping in the fields around us. There was nothing now. Nothing but frost and this oppressive sense of desolation. Just a few days ago, in that same car shop, I had listened in on the conversations between Martin, Shooter, Aleksieva, Zorro...

If I was reading things correctly, Shooter had managed to get away, but the rest... The fact that their voices had been silenced forever was hard to process. Not that I felt sadness or grief or something, but death was one of the most god-awful things in this world. I had seen all its ugly faces and should be desensitized to it by now, but I'm not. I feel sick to my stomach every time, even when it is the death of not particularly pleasant people. I have my principles. Human life is above everything.

There were only three of us at the car shop—me and two nameless, taciturn warriors from the terracotta army of Milen Stoyanov. One of the beefy fellas opened the sliding door of the car shop with a few tugs. Did no one lock up his property anymore? Although, that guy would have opened the door just as easily even if it had a padlock.

We stepped inside and I flipped the light switch on. The lamps clicked on one after the other, bathing the car shop in white light. The room was notably emptier than I remembered it. The two off-road vehicles as well as many of the car parts and pieces of sheet metal were gone. So was most of the furniture. It looked like someone had taken everything of use, leaving behind only junk.

I had left the shovel leaning against the dumpster, but it wasn't there anymore. That's what made me go inside the car shop in the first place—to look for another shovel. But I couldn't find anything—not a shovel, not a hoe, not even a pickaxe.

I kicked a putty knife covered in paint and that made me think of Shooter. I remembered him using a putty knife to dig around in the mud of the pit for the gun—maybe it was even the same one I'd just kicked. I picked it up off the floor and realized that the car shop was stripped bare. Everything valuable was gone. I could only hope that the man who had emptied the place hadn't found the money.

What if he had stumbled upon the pile of cash?

As I was going back to the parking lot, I tried to imagine what could have happened. I tried to put myself in the shoes of whoever had been here.

So I give my off-road vehicle(s) to the owner of the car shop, Martin, to tune them up and transform them into off-road monsters. I pay in advance for all the car parts, the labor and whatever else he says—it's a hefty sum. The project takes longer than promised, though. Then, all of a sudden, the owner of the car shop slits his wrists in the police station's holding cell and bleeds to death. What am I supposed to do? The money I gave him is gone. But the car shop is still sitting there. So I go there and help myself to whatever catches my eye until I feel we are even.

As I ransack the place, I find a bag full of money.

What now?

At first, I decide to take the money, that's a no-brainer. But then I stop to think that two hundred grand in a plastic bag is not the same as finding five bucks on the street. So much cash in one place means organized crime. In my head I see thugs, racketeers and killers... and I get cold feet. I leave the money as it is, beat a hasty retreat and pray that no one saw me.

I crossed the parking lot, ducked into the doghouse and used the lighter to investigate.

Oh, yes.

The bag of money was still lying peacefully there.

I let out the air trapped in my lungs on a long breath. I had just bought my life back.

I called the bruisers over and showed them the bills arranged neatly under the blanket. They took them out and put them in the car.

"Where's the gun?" one of them asked. "Get moving."

The tires piled outside the fence had disappeared. On second thought, they hadn't just disappeared. Someone had used them to light a bonfire. Maybe he had fed some documents to the fire too—it had been happening quite frequently of late thanks to the good work of one investigative journalist. Or maybe he had just needed to get warm in the cold night.

Either way, the tire marking the spot where I'd buried the gun was no longer there. There were no visible signs of the hole either. It had rained since then, contributing to an even layer of settled mud topped with the black ash to which the tires had been reduced. A metal detector would have come in handy right now. Just as I'd explained to Garo, metal detectors can bring you fortune. Not in the literal sense, obviously. But I didn't have a metal detector. Only a putty knife.

If you've never tried digging a hole in the ground with a putty knife, you can't sympathize with me. No point going into detail.

After fifteen minutes of frantic grubbing, the knife hit something hard. I dug into the squishy mud with my fingers and heaved a sigh of relief. The gun was still there in the plastic bag, correction, the two plastic bags in which Todor had put it.

"I found it!" I cried and got to my feet. "Here it is."

The thugs must have thought I wasn't right in the head because they were cautiously standing several paces away. One of them had even discretely pulled out a chrome revolver.

"Leave it and step back, buddy."

I put down the bag and stepped back. One of the thugs got closer and picked up the bag, while the other was watching my every move. They exchanged a few words and the guy with the revolver called someone on the phone. It was a brief conversation. The mission was accomplished, the money and the gun were found, the chump—that was me—turned out to be right—that was the gist of the report.

They shoved me inside the car again and in ten minutes we stopped outside a glitzy hotel illuminated by small, bright spotlights. I was surprised to see a hotel in Izgrev working during the off-season. Or maybe this one had opened its doors especially for Milen Stoyanov and his men. The lamps above the shelter protruding over the entrance lit up a large stone mosaic with haphazard letters imitating the Greek alphabet.

Melpomene.

Aha!

So that was the hotel that Zorro, Veronica and her young colleague had mentioned. All three had made it sound like the height of luxury and comfort. A place where only celebrities would stay. Leather sofas, a black grand piano, sushi bar and a cigar lounge with a Members Only sign at the door, a fountain with goldfish swimming in it and a winter garden with chameleons scurrying across it. But from what I could see, standing at the reception desk in the lobby, this was a different type of hotel. My bet was on round beds and mirrors on the ceiling.

The broad-shouldered boys led me straight to the restaurant. The large salon was empty. There were ten to twelve tables, of which only one was set. Two men were sitting at the table—Milen Stoyanov and Zachary.

Zachary?

Bastard.

Until hours ago he had been fawning over Zorro as if he was his butler... Daniel Slavov had, in turn, treated him like his senior advisor or an older, wiser brother... Guess the sleazebag was simply following his survival instincts. He had cut off his tail and was now pledging his loyalty to his new boss.

No. That wasn't right.

Those two didn't give off the vibe of a feudal lord talking to his newly converted vassal. They were sitting there, having a conversation like old buddies. How's it going Zach? Is Dimitar still playing soccer? Has Neli graduated yet? Man, it's been so long since I last saw them, they must be all grown up... The two went way back, and Daniel Slavov had probably had no idea about their relationship. It had been going on for years.

There was a bottle of whiskey on the table. They were just having a drink like old friends. Had they tossed one back for the dead? I felt bile rising up my throat. I was overcome by a nauseating feeling. As if I had been confronted with the sight of a dead dolphin. Once, as a kid, I saw a dead dolphin washed ashore in Ahtopol and it triggered the same sensation. People had gathered around the animal and I squeezed through the crowd to have a look. I would never forget its yellowish body. Someone said that the dolphin had been killed by fishermen and an old man with a straw hat near me whispered "bastards"... Here, in the restaurant, I had the feeling I was among bastards. Suddenly I felt chilled and shivered. Maybe it was actually cold in the restaurant.

I didn't know how those two had found each other. Milen Stoyanov was the epitome of energy, style, arrogance and everything modern, while Zachary looked like a forest ranger next to him. I wouldn't be surprised if he wore long drawers under his police uniform.

But business, just like love, was blind for these things.

Two steps away from the table and facing us was the third terracotta warrior. For some reason he was wearing sunglasses inside. Maybe he had done some welding without protection recently and now his eyes were sensitive to light.

Zachary spotted us even before we had set foot in the restaurant. His eyes flicked over us for a second and he resumed his conversation with Milen. Perhaps it was those finely honed reflexes that had helped him stick with the police for so long.

A second later Milen Stoyanov communicated something to his bruisers with a gesture. The one with the revolver approached the table and showed the plastic-wrapped finds to his boss. Signore Armani checked the bag full of cash and put it on the chair next to him. He passed the bag with the gun to Zachary. The old officer studied the weapon through the plastic and put it on the chair next to him. Milen Stoyanov whispered something to the bruiser and he nodded. Probably gave him instructions in which landfill to dispose my body

Kidding.

Ha-ha.

They were going to make it seem as if the weapon belonged to either Zorro or Whey and explain their death that way. Give them a dose of their own medicine—here's the real killer, release that poor wretch from custody. They were going to make Daniel Slavov out to be blacker than his black clothes.

Sons of bitches.

The bile crept further up my throat.

The bruiser came back for me and pushed me to the table. I stood in front of the two long-time buddies and waited.

Milen Stoyanov looked at me and nodded almost imperceptibly—he was pleased with the finds I'd brought him.

"Come sit and have a drink with us. You've earned it."

"Thank you," I shook my head. "I'm not really thirsty."

I could barely stand on my feet.

"No one refuses Mr. Stoyanov," Zachary chimed in. "Sit down."

I had no intention of acknowledging him. Of the two of them, Milen Stoyanov was the only one I could even force myself to talk to.

"You promised to leave me alone if I bring you those things," I pointed to the plastic bags. "You remember?"

"That's right," Signore Armani returned. "And I'll keep my promise."

"So I can go now?"

"Yes."

"And you'll let me leave?"

"Yes."

"And you'll erase me from your memory, just as I'll erase you from my memory the moment I walk out of here?"

Milen Stoyanov laughed.

"Do you realize how lucky you are?"

Oh, sure, I had been saying the same thing my whole life. I had never had any complaints. In fact, I was going to buy a lottery ticket first thing in the morning. Come to think of it, with that luck of mine, I'd better buy a whole stack of them—they would all bring me prizes.

"You saved the life of a very important person and that makes you untouchable," Marting Stoyanov clarified. "You're under his protection now. According to some Muslim mumbo jumbo, he is your guardian for life. In other words, you have total immunity. No one can touch you, even I. At least for a while."

"You've known this all along!"

"Excuse me?"

The motherfucker had known that I was safe the whole time he'd been putting on that find-the-gun-and-the-money-or-I-will-kill-you show. He'd known it and he'd played me so I would do one more job for him before he let me be on my way. He had used me just like all the other prominent residents of Izgrev had. How did those people sleep at night? Well, some of them had transitioned to their eternal sleep. The rest were barreling down the same path.

"I never learned the name of the gentleman whose life I saved."

"What do you need it for?"

"I keep a diary."

Milen Stoyanov got up from his chair and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Don't push your luck, just get lost."

Thank you, Signore Armani, I intend to take your advice.

I took a step back, right into the paws of the bruiser. He pushed me out the restaurant door and once we were in the lobby, he handed me a card. At first, I took it for a credit card, but he explained:

"Room 103. Don't show your face again before five thirty in the morning."

"What time is it?"

The thug glanced at the clock above the reception desk. It said twenty minutes past two in the afternoon. He pulled out his phone and swiped his thumb across the screen.

"It's twenty-five minutes to ten."

It was barely nine thirty in the evening! And here I had the feeling that it was the middle of the night. My body clock needed setting ASAP. It had gotten into the habit of misleading me.

"And after that?"

"What?"

"Can I show my face after that?"

The thug looked at me blankly. Perhaps he hadn't been told what would happen next either.

"Go up to your room!"

### 37.

The first thing I did when I got to the room was make a stop in the bathroom. It had been a while since I last had the chance to use a proper toilet. And answering the call of nature is a ritual of pleasure on its own. Once I came down from the high this simple pleasure gave me, I noticed there was a bathtub with tiny bottles of shampoo and shower gel placed in one corner. I turned the faucet on and hot water gushed out from the spout.

As I was waiting for the bathtub to fill, I looked around the room—no mirror on the ceiling and the bed was a normal shape. Some kind soul had put a set of clean clothes neatly folded on the not-round bed: black denim jeans, black denim jacket, black sweater, black t-shirt, black socks and black boxers. They were all my size. They were also a sight for sore eyes, once you got over the fact that the all-black outfit looked like something out of Zorro's closet. I didn't give a damn. I stripped naked and dropped all my clothes in a messy pile on the floor. They were so filthy and ragged that even a guy like Garo wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole.

On my way to have a soak in the bathtub, I spotted a tray of food on the desk by the wall: steak in some kind of dark sauce, a large serving of French fries, salad and a bottle of wine. I also saw flatware, a napkin and even toothpicks.

I could hardly believe my eyes.

I was starting to understand what Zorro and Veronica had meant. Melpomene was truly an unusual place. The coziness and comfort a hotel provides are not measured by the financial investment made in its interior, but the special treatment of its guests. If I were staying here under normal circumstances, the welcome pack would have also included a greeting card with a nice message and a vase of fresh flowers.

***

I soaked in the bathtub for a long time.

I felt the water washing away everything that Izgrev had put me through. I was healing from the trauma, shedding the anxiety that had been clinging to me like a second skin ever since I and those two good-for-nothings found that gold bracelet on the Lozenets beach. In a few weeks, I wouldn't even remember them or Whey or Martin or Aleksieva. But that hot bath would be engraved on my memory.

When my fingers had gotten all wrinkly, I got out of the bathtub and took a shower.

I walked to the bed, leaving wet footprints on the laminated flooring.

I toweled off slowly and thoroughly and pounced on the food. I finally came round to putting on the new clothes, but not until the last French fry was gone. Someone with a keen eye for measurements had gotten my size right. The jeans were too long and I had to roll the legs up, but that seems to be a thing with jeans in general.

I stretched out on the bed and my back cracked with gratitude. I couldn't remember lying in a real bed over the past few weeks, if I didn't count the pallet in the break room at the gas station. But that was a hard wooden counter compared with the mattress at Melpomene, which felt like it was made for me.

My inner voice was telling me that all of this was too good to be true. Another inner voice—that of the idiot in me—was singing opera arias. The rest were mumbling. The whole thing got me thinking about how in some countries people on death row are allowed to have a smoke and a glass of brandy before their execution. They get treated to the fine things in this world one last time.

To hell with it!

I was fine with death. At this very moment I didn't want anything—not from another person, not from life and not from God.

### 38.

I must have dozed off because the knocking on the door was pretty insistent. I startled, crawled out of bed and stumbled toward the door. I was prepared for anything—and I didn't care about most of the things I imagined I was prepared for. I opened the door to reveal the shaved head of Mr. Clean.

Oh, come on! I had neither the energy nor the patience to deal with that guy. On the other hand, his appearance at the door of my hotel room cleared my head and woke me up better than a cup of black coffee. I moved to close the door, but Biceps propped it with his foot, gave me one of his patented looks and said through gritted teeth:

"Pack up your stuff."

Yeah, I don't think so!

"Why?"

"It's half past five in the morning. Your bus is leaving in forty-five minutes."

Half past five!

So I'd slept close to eight hours! That hadn't happened to me in a long time. And yet I didn't feel rested. I definitely had to catch up on sleep a lot more.

"What bus?"

"We're down to forty-four minutes now."

I was surprised that Biceps could do simple math. Truly. Then I remembered that Milen Stoyanov's bruiser had mentioned half past five as some kind of watershed moment. Now I knew what the rest of the plan was. They weren't going to kill me. They were getting me on a bus and sending me away. Milen Stoyanov had kept his word. Unless bus wasn't some kind of metaphor the local underworld used.

I didn't have stuff to pack up, so I just checked the pockets of my new denim jacket. All my possessions were there.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Let me see you walk."

The infamous black BMW was waiting for me outside the hotel. Triceps, who was in the front passenger seat, didn't even spare me a glance. Biceps opened the back door for me to get in, then slid behind the wheel and drove off.

When the headlights lit up the Izgrev town sign, I couldn't believe that I was actually finally leaving this place.

Was I going to miss it?

Was I going to miss the rough waters of Izgrev, which sometimes seemed blue and other times green?

I remembered Zachary blessing me with this piece of wisdom on the sidewalk outside the police station and I smiled to myself.

Because the lightbulb had finally went off in my head—Daniel Slavov had figured out who I was during our very first meeting on Tuesday, when he asked me for my name. A bit later in the day he'd been absolutely confident. And by the next morning he'd had all the details—the morning when he'd released me and sent Zachary to impart wisdom. By that point he'd also known he had to keep me alive because of the lone surviving Arab's commanded.

That was what made Daniel Slavov convince the local thugs not to harm me without giving them the whole story on why I had immunity.

Just great.

I'd had epiphanies about having been made a fool before, but I hadn't felt like a complete fool in a long time.

Would I ever go back to Izgrev? You are welcome to visit us in the summer as a tourist. Our town has great hotels, restaurants, attractions to offer. You will have an unforgettable time.

Ho-ho-ho!

I had no plans.

That's the good thing about having a crappy life—you can live it without making plans.

### 39.

We were riding in silence.

The endless black of the sea was visible to the right of the road. In the summer nights, the coast was lit like a Christmas tree—a spectacle of lights glimmering all the way to Cape Emine. Hotels, restaurants, nightclubs, harbors, yachts—a magnificent string of sources of entertainment for regular tourists. And an appealing string of sources of easy money for resourceful local crime groups. Now the lights were few and far between, as if most of the Christmas lights bulbs had gone out and no one had bothered to change them. But the next high season would inevitably come with renewed energy, even more tourists and even more resourceful entrepreneurs. The inflow of easy money would never dry up. The plethora of scum trying to put a hand on this money would always be a fixture too. The thugs, the dirty cops and the corrupt politicians were there to stay. The only thing that was destined to disappear were people like me.

The SUV made another turn and the sprawling lights of Burgas came into view. The city was growing with every passing year, gradually taking over the plain where it was situated like an insatiable, phosphorescent octopus. The inflow of a great deal of capital was turning Burgas into a modern, thriving city. I wouldn't be surprised if real estate developers here started building monstrosities like those in Dubai soon. Entrepreneurs across the world have pretty much the same dreams.

Biceps cursed a driver for suddenly decelerating in front of him and blasted his horn while passing the other vehicle. After that little outburst we continued to ride in silence.

The radio was rustling with sappy retro tunes. Triceps turned up the volume when the top-of-the-hour newscast came on. It was six o'clock so we had fifteen minutes until the bus left.

"Late last night two men were killed in a major car accident. The fatal crash occurred on the MR 99 near Primorsko. Initial reports have Daniel Slavov, chief of the Izgrev police department, as one of the casualties. The vehicle driven by Slavov entered a lane of oncoming traffic, where it was hit by another vehicle. The two drivers died on impact. This is the latest high-profile incident in the region of Burgas after several days earlier a local politician and mayor candidate from the Patriotic Forum of Izgrev committed suicide, while a female police officer drowned after jumping into the sea to save a dog. At the beginning of the week, a triple murder was committed in the same area. The murder case is expected to be heard by the court by the end of the year, announced a spokesperson for Regional Prosecutor's Office-Burgas. The murder weapon was found last night during a second search of the home of the alleged perpetrator. And now to news from around the world..."

Triceps turned the volume down.

Garo.

Why had I even assumed that they would frame Zorro for the murders?! I must be getting old. Milen Stoyanov had no interest in changing the initial plan. Especially now that things had finally settled down. The curtain had fallen on the whole Izgrev ordeal. Zorro would be laid to rest in a closed-casket funeral, with military-style honors sprucing up the ceremony, and Garo would be buried alive behind concrete prison walls.

I felt sorry for the two boys in the front seats of the car. They were not even thirty yet and might never live to such ripe old age.

They were never getting back to Izgrev. If their vehicle didn't enter a lane of oncoming traffic, they would drown in the sea trying to save a dolphin or some such nonsense.

The criminal world operates by its own strict rules. When a conquered area is purged of its previous masters, no one is spared. Just like damaged tissue sometimes has to be removed all the way to the bone.

If they were smart, they would sense the danger and keep driving until they reached Romania, sticking to less busy roads. Then again, if they were smart, they would have gone to university and never gotten into this mess in the first place.

All of a sudden I noticed how old and shabby the black BMW, their prized possession, was. The door handles, the steering wheel and the buttons on the dashboard bore telltale traces of long years of use. The entire SUV reminded me of an ancient whaler covered in seashells. Would the guys replacing Biceps and Triceps prance about in some fancy Audi with the silhouette of a shark?

The SUV did a half-circle outside the bus station and jolted to a halt. Biceps got out and opened my door as if I was some rock star.

I got out and stretched my feet. There was only one bus in the departure area—its engine idling, its front door open. Just three seats were taken, as far as I could tell. I took a look at the SUV and shoved my hands into my jeans pockets. I had no baggage to take out of the trunk, no friends to say goodbye to.

Perhaps people like me would never go extinct after all. As long as there were people like Biceps, there would be people like Emil Milev. We justified each other's existence. We gave each other meaning. Not that that made the world a more sensible or better place...

"Bye!" I said, shrugging and went to turn away from him.

"Wait..." Biceps said quietly. "Here, this is from Milen Stoyanov."

He was holding a piece of paper. At first, I took it for the two hundred bucks that Signore Armani never gave back to me. But then I realized it was a bus ticket.

"And that," the thug continued, nodding, "is from me."

His fist smashed into my left cheekbone. My head spun, along with the world around me. The pre-dawn darkness sparkled with an array of bright, colorful lights before it settled back to its dullness. I regained my balance and gave him a smile:

"You're an absolute goner!"

He probably didn't hear me as he was already getting into the SUV. He floored the gas pedal and the car spun with a screech down the broken concrete parking lot. The red tail lights disappeared around the corner and the only sound I could hear in the quiet of the sleepy city was the low rumblе of the bus engine.

***

I climbed the three steps at the front door of the bus and offered the driver my ticket. I waited for him to check it, took it back and settled in a second-row seat on his side of the aisle.

Outside dawn was breaking. Another day of my crappy life was starting. I had no idea what the future held.

Maybe I would finally find the courage to open that safety deposit box, the key to which I had been carrying with me for the past six years. Or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I would get a steady job, rent an apartment. Or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I would call Vyara first. Or maybe I wouldn't. At the end of the day, I didn't need much. I was showered, dressed in clean clothes, nothing was hurting and I'd had a meal recently. I was on a bus to the capital with five hundred bucks in my right shoe. It wasn't that bad for the middle of November.

Most importantly, I was still alive, despite all the threats and sinister promises of the past few days.

I was alive because I had done one good deed before all that madness of posturing, barking and screwing over started: I had called the emergency number and saved a human life. I had rescued a stranger from the clutches of death. I was still conflicted about the fact that I'd saved the life of a killer and a criminal. But if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. I have principles. Human life is above everything. I leave the administration of justice to God. If he has nothing better to do.

"Do you need a tissue?"

I looked to my right and saw a tissue held by a delicate hand.

"Excuse me?"

"Your nose is bleeding."

I looked up and realized that the hand and the voice belonged to a very nice young lady.

Veronica Shopova.

I couldn't believe it!

I stood up and smiled.

In the next moment my smile melted like early November frost.

It was a different girl. She looked like Veronica but only at first glance. Actually, the resemblance started and ended with the fact that she was young and beautiful. Her hair color was much lighter. Her face was much paler. If the startled look in her eyes was any indication, she had paled at my unexpected reaction.

Sometimes my desire for something to happen is so bad that I see what I want.

I had scared the girl, jumping out of my seat like that. Her hand was still outstretched in the space between us as if paralyzed by fear. I took the tissue, apologized and sat back down. I wiped the blood off my face, rolled the tissue and stuck it in my left nostril to stop the bleeding. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes.

***

I meet all kinds of people. Many of them I wouldn't mind never seeing again. Some would be glad to never see me again. I believe I'm not a bad person, but there's no way of knowing that for sure. I've been through all sorts of stuff in the past few years. Enough to inspire some romantic magazine to do a ten-page feature on "blows that life deals" or "the struggle along the journey", but all talk is empty, no matter how dressed up in pretty words.

At first, I was trying to find some kind of logic to it all, I was looking for signs, a pattern that would tell me where my life was going and what was ahead of me. The questions piled, my mind swarmed with them until I was filled with a sense of insecurity and loneliness. Questions, questions, questions—as if they could somehow force the world to make more sense or become more beautiful.

I never found answers to any of them.

So I no longer ask questions.

Don't get me wrong. I haven't given up. I haven't become disinterested in the world either. I'm still trying to hold on to my empathy. I am moved by kind gestures. I even tear up once in a while.

But I take care not to stand out.

Have you spent time in jail?

If you ever get the chance, take care not to stand out.

That's my outlook on life in general. None of the people I know are saints. None of them would ever have their portraits hung in a classroom. I doubt any of them would make the world a better place. Not that they aren't trying. But that's how much, or little, sparkle they got. At the end of the day, repainting the dark-gray prison wall in a lighter shade of gray is not much of a victory.

Sometimes it feels that way too—like the world is a giant penal colony for people who messed up big time and have to work really hard if they want to earn their redemption. Sometimes I think that the only way to get out of this world is to serve my sentence—quietly, meekly, without whining and without standing out.

Holding on to virtues comes at a great physical cost. I know that from personal experience. But that's also the only way I can fend off the darkness that is lurking behind the next corner, ready to engulf me. I'm not giving it that pleasure. Not without a fight.

***

The bus drove off and the fatigue I felt after the ordeal of the past five days started to get the better of me.

I could hear the Greek chorus of my inner voices over the engine gurgle. But I had no energy to listen to them. I planned to spend the entire trip sleeping. Crappy life has its small joys.

### Acknowledgments

Thank you to Elena Lazarkova, Nikola Miloshev and Milen Simeonov for their wholehearted support and constant peeking over my shoulder to tirelessly and patiently correcting every grammatical, spelling and factual error. Their insight into technical terms, professional jargon and literary devices has been invaluable. I take full responsibility for any inaccuracies that might have snuck in the book.

Thank you to the real people behind Christina Aleksieva, Veronica Shopova, Daniel Slavov, Milen Stoyanov, Martin, Todor and Zachary for inspiring these characters and making the book what it is.

Thank you to all of you for reading and keeping the fire burning.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is purely coincidental.
