Chapter 81: THE SIDE JOB

The room had no windows. Its walls were lined with dark wood that absorbed light, and the only source of illumination was a low-hanging lamp above the round table—a lamp with a tarnished metal shade, whose light fell right in the center of the table and left the corners of the room in shadow. The table itself was made of old teak wood, its surface covered in scratches and the rings of glasses that had never been wiped. Ten chairs surrounded it. Ten people sat in those chairs, and not one of them leaned back.

The first to speak was the old man in the northern chair—Grandfather, from the Gambling Gate. His voice was hoarse, slow, and every sentence ended with a long breath that sounded like someone holding back a cough. He reported that this week three underground casinos had to be closed because the police passed by too often, and that he had already moved the dice tables to a warehouse behind the grocery store. No one responded. The report was routine. Nothing needed to be said.

The Madam from the Prostitution Gate reported that two new women had just been brought in from out of town, and that she needed a new shelter because the old house was too close to a school. She spoke in a flat voice, without emotion, like she was reading a shopping list. The Doctor from the Drug Gate reported that his stock was running low and that he needed a new entry route because the port was too tight. The Uncle from the Weapons Gate reported that he had received an offer for rifles from abroad, and that he was considering it. The City Mother from the Property Gate reported that there were three buildings in the city center going up for auction, and that she wanted to control all of them.

They all spoke one by one, in soft voices, without interrupting each other. Until finally it was the turn of the man in the lower chair—Fortress, from the Protection Gate. He was the largest man in the room, with shoulders that barely fit in his chair, and a neck as thick as a tree trunk. When he spoke, his voice was heavy and short—as usual. But this time, there was something in his voice that made everyone lift their heads.

"There’s one thing," Fortress said.

Everyone looked at him.

"Last night, one of my most trusted men was found dead. In our warehouse on the outskirts of the city."

Silence. No one moved.

"We found his body in that warehouse. But not just his body." Fortress paused for a moment. His jaw tightened. "We found many bodies. All of them our men. All of them dead. And the strangest thing—" he turned toward the Doctor, "—they were all made to look like suicides."

HAAH. The Doctor straightened his back. "Suicides?"

"Yes. Every body was holding a weapon. Every wound was consistent with suicide. But it’s impossible for everyone to kill themselves in the same place, at the same time, for no reason."

The Doctor narrowed his eyes behind his dark glasses. "Are you sure your man wasn’t drunk? Maybe he used your own product, then killed everyone, then killed himself."

Fortress turned toward him. His gaze was cold. "I wouldn’t stoop to using your drugs, even if the alternative was death."

The Doctor laughed softly—a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. "You talk like someone who’s never tried."

"I talk like someone who still has a brain."

"You—"

"Enough."

The voice came from the chair on the right side—Pen, from the Information Gate. He was a thin man with neatly combed hair and round glasses that were always clean. When he spoke, everyone turned. No one argued.

"What Fortress said is true," Pen said. "We searched the warehouse this morning. We found traces of a fight. Not suicides."

Silence again. This time heavier.

"How many did they fight?" Uncle asked.

"We counted footprints. From the size and pattern, there were about three people."

Three people. Against all the warehouse members—who, according to Fortress, numbered at least twenty. And twenty people died. Made to look like suicides.

"Did anyone survive?" Madam asked.

"No one," Pen answered. "But there’s one interesting thing." He placed a photo on the table—a slightly blurry black-and-white photo. "The most common footprints found in that warehouse were the footprints of one person. Not too large. Military-type shoes. And from the walking pattern—" he pointed to several spots on the photo, "—this person moves efficiently. No excessive movement. No hesitation. Every step has a purpose."

Grandfather leaned forward. His tired eyes opened wider. "If the shoes are military, that means he’s not an ordinary thug. Thugs don’t wear military shoes."

"Yes," Pen said. "That’s what makes me curious."

Fortress clenched his fists on the table. "So you’re saying three people entered our warehouse, killed twenty people, and left without a trace?"

"Yes."

"And one of them—" Fortress pointed at the photo, "—moves like a soldier?"

Pen nodded. "Like a soldier. Or like someone trained by a soldier."

The Doctor pushed his glasses up. "Then we have a problem. Whoever did this knows what he’s doing. He’s not just anyone."

"Or," said City Mother, who had been silent until now, "he’s sending a message."

Everyone turned toward her.

"Why did he make all the bodies look like suicides?" City Mother continued. "If he wanted to destroy us, why not leave a message? Why not claim responsibility? Why hide it?"

"Because he doesn’t want us to know who he is," Pen answered.

"Or because he wants us to wonder," Grandfather said. "And while we wonder, we don’t move."

Madam crossed her arms. "I’m curious about that person. If he’s that good, maybe he could be useful."

Uncle looked at her. "You want to recruit him?"

"Why not? Someone who can kill twenty people alone—or with two others—is someone worth hiring. If we don’t recruit him, someone else will."

"I don’t want to recruit someone who just killed our people," Fortress said. His voice was heavy.

"You don’t want to. But you also don’t want that person wandering around unsupervised." Madam smiled slightly. "At least if he works for us, we can watch him."

The Doctor tapped the table with his finger. "I agree with Madam. Someone like that is more dangerous if left free."

"Or more dangerous if we hire him," Uncle said.

"We’ll never know if we don’t try."

Grandfather raised his hand—slowly, but everyone immediately fell silent. "We’ll discuss this at the next meeting. Saturday. As usual. We’ll discuss who that person is, and what we should do."

"Agreed," Pen said.

"Agreed," the Doctor said.

"Agreed," Madam said.

"Agreed," Uncle said.

"Agreed," City Mother said.

"Agreed," Fortress said—though clearly he didn’t like it.

"Agreed," Driver said, who had only been listening.

"Agreed," Banker said, who also didn’t talk much.

And the last one—the man in the farthest chair, who had never spoken throughout the meeting, who had never opened his mouth, who had never turned left or right—just nodded slightly. No one knew his name. No one knew his face. The only thing known was one: he was the Dark Gate.

The meeting dispersed. One by one, they stood and left—with intervals of a few minutes, so no one knew where the others went. The lamp above the table remained lit, illuminating ten empty chairs, and the room returned to silence.

Kai stared at the pile of items on his table. There were several cardboard boxes—medium-sized, with brown tape on top. Beside the boxes, there were several black plastic bags, and one backpack he didn’t recognize. On top of the pile, there was a letter—handwritten, without a sender’s name, just one word on the front: Kai.

He opened the letter. Its contents were brief: For the infiltration. Read everything. Memorize. Burn.

Kai let out a breath. Haaah. He opened the first box—inside were clothes. Not ordinary clothes. Clothes he would wear if he wanted to look like a different person. There was a black leather jacket with silver zippers, a black shirt, black pants, black boots. Everything black. Everything new. At the bottom of the box, there was a leather wallet with a fake ID—a name he didn’t recognize, an address he didn’t recognize, a birth date he didn’t recognize. There were also several bills and several business cards with the same name as the ID.

The second box contained documents. Several sheets of paper with information about the Ten Gates—leaders’ names, headquarters locations, habits, weaknesses. There were also several photos—photos taken from a distance, not too clear, but enough to recognize faces. Kai read everything quickly. He memorized the names. He memorized the faces. He memorized the habits.

The third box contained weapons. A pistol with a silencer. A folding knife. Several bullets. A thin rope that could be folded down to the size of a coin. Kai checked everything—making sure nothing was jammed, nothing was broken, nothing was suspicious.

He closed all the boxes and pushed them under the table. He would read them again later. Now, he had to go to school. He grabbed his usual backpack—not the new black one—and walked out of his apartment. He descended the stairs, stepped into the morning air, and started walking.

He hadn’t reached the school gate when he heard a voice—a female voice, rising, frightened. Kai quickened his steps, and at the corner of the street, he saw it: a young woman with a bag in her hand, cornered between three men. The first was short and fat, with a small knife in his hand held in an unprofessional way. The second was thin and tall, with hands that kept reaching for the woman’s bag. The third—the most dangerous—was of ordinary build, but his eyes were calm, and he wasn’t in a hurry.

Kai didn’t slow his steps. He walked straight toward them. The short man turned and raised his knife. "Hey, move! This isn’t your business!"

Kai didn’t move. He kept walking. The man swung his knife—an untrained movement, easy to read. Kai caught his wrist, twisted it back, and the man screamed before falling to his knees. The knife fell to the ground, and Kai kicked it into the gutter.

The thin man tried to run. He ran, but Kai had already moved—he grabbed the man’s jacket collar, pulled him back, and pushed him into the wall. The man’s head hit the brick, and he went silent.

The third man—the calm one—didn’t run. He just smiled. He pulled a gun from inside his jacket, but before he could raise it, Kai was already in front of him. Kai caught his hand, turned the gun downward, and pressed the man’s finger against the trigger. The gun fired—one shot into the ground—and the man was startled. Kai used that moment of carelessness to punch his face. The man fell.

Kai stood among the three motionless men, then he walked to the young woman—still cornered against the wall, with the bag in her trembling hand. Kai took the bag from her hand—slowly, carefully—then gave it back to her.

"This is your bag."

The woman nodded. She didn’t speak. She just took her bag and walked quickly away, without looking back.

Kai stood there for a moment, staring at the three men still lying there, then he continued his walk to school.

He hadn’t gone five meters when someone called him from behind the wall.

"Hey."

Kai turned. A man stood there—leaning against the brick wall, with his hands in his pockets, and a hat covering part of his face. He wasn’t tall, wasn’t short, wasn’t thin, wasn’t fat. His face was ordinary—too ordinary to remember. But on his neck, below the jawline, there was a tattoo. A tattoo Kai recognized. The same tattoo that was on Jero’s neck.

"You saw that earlier," the man said. "You’re fast."

Kai didn’t answer.

"Do you need a job?"

Kai looked at him. "What job?"

"Door guard. Not a big job. You just need to stand in front of the door, make sure no one enters without permission. The pay is decent. You can work nights, if you’re busy during the day."

Kai looked at the man longer. The tattoo on his neck. The same tattoo. He didn’t know if this was a coincidence, or if this was a path that had been prepared for him. But he knew one thing: if he wanted to get into the Ten Gates, he had to start from the bottom. And the door—the door was a good place to start.

"I’m in," Kai said.

The man nodded slightly. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small piece of paper—a folded paper, with a handwritten address. He handed it to Kai.

"Here. Come tonight. Ten o’clock. Don’t be late."

Kai took the paper. He unfolded it briefly—reading the address—then folded it again and put it in his pocket.

The man turned and walked away. Kai watched his back until he disappeared at the street corner. Then he looked at the paper in his hand once more. That address—he recognized it. It was the address of the warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The same warehouse Fortress had mentioned in the meeting earlier.

He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. He didn’t know if this was a coincidence. He didn’t know if the man knew who he was. But he knew one thing: this was a door. And he would enter.