Delivery

Mark’s phone chimed. He looked at the caller ID: Client K. He let the phone ring twice more before answering.

"Yes?" he answered.

"I need you to pick up a package at 1700 Douglas Avenue, suite C," a female voice said, "and deliver it to 3821 Fairbanks Street by three o'clock."

"I'm not an errand boy," Mark said, annoyed. "If you need a package delivered, call the post office."

Mark was about to hang up when the caller quickly spoke up.

"Please," she said, her voice in a panic. "I wouldn't call you, but I don't have anyone else to turn to. I'm desperate."

Mark tapped the table he was sitting at, thinking. He knew from experience that desperate people tended to have deep pockets. He also knew that the payment usually wasn’t worth the trouble they had gotten themselves in. Still, he was curious.

"How desperate?" he asked.

"I'll pay you triple your usual fee,” she said hurriedly, likely afraid that if she didn't get her words out quickly, Mark wouldn't stay on the line to hear her say them.

Mark did some quick calculations in his head. "It's nearly two now," he said. "Even if I wanted to help you, getting to Douglas and then Fairbanks in an hour isn't possible. Sorry."

"Five times!" Client K said. "Please!"

"I suppose," Mark said, letting the words slowly fall out of his mouth, "I could lend a hand just this once."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed.

"This is the only time I will do something like this," Mark said, pointedly. "Don't bother asking again."

"I won't," the woman said solemnly. "Your payment is being transferred now."

Mark hung up the phone and slipped it into his suit jacket's interior breast pocket. Moving quickly, he got up from the table, went to his bedroom closet, pushed all of the hanging clothes to one side, and flipped a switch hidden on the backside of clothes rod. The rear wall silently slid away, revealing an assortment of weapons. Having never done a delivery job, he was unsure of what to take. He opted for a single Glock 17, which he stored in the holster on the back of his belt, obscuring it from view with his jacket. Returning his closet to its starting position, Mark went to the garage.

He considered a motorcycle since he'd be able to split lanes, but since he was delivering something, he probably needed a trunk. The Lamborghini was his fasted car, but it was likely too large and too conspicuous (the client hadn't asked for discretion, but that was Mark's default for his work). Ultimately, he got in the driver's seat of his Mini Cooper and drove off.

By the time he was on the main road, it was 1:59. Mark didn't ask questions about the who's and why's of his jobs, he just did what needed doing. Still, he couldn't help but be curious what was so important about this package and why it needed to be delivered in an hour's time. Douglas Ave was near the docks, which the Russian mafia controlled, though Mark wasn't sure if their influence reached as far west as Douglas.

Mark weaved through traffic, going at least twenty over the speed limit. He drove without any music playing so he could focus more of his attention on the job. He wasn’t sure if that made sense, but it helped him feel as if he was more alert, so he drove in silence.

He arrived at Douglas Ave at 2:17, one minute ahead of the loose schedule he had in his head. He was surprised when he pulled up to 1700C to see that it was a bakery. Must be a front or something, Mark reasoned. He parked the car and walked in.

A chime sounded as Mark opened the front door. The bakery was small and filled every available space with display cases showcasing the day's assortment of breads and pastries. A young woman in a flour specked apron came out of the door that led to the back, the door swinging back and forth behind her. Her black hair was in a messy bun with a hairnet on top and she was wiping her hands on the towel that hung from the waist pocket of her apron.

"Welcome to Sunny Day Bakery," she said with a smile. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here to pick up a package," Mark said simply.

"Ah, yes," the woman said, nodding. "I was told you'd be coming. Please wait right here."

The woman disappeared into the back again. Almost immediately, she returned, carrying a pink cardstock box that was fastened with white string. She passed it to Mark, instructing him to support the bottom.

"Have a sunny day!" the woman said enthusiastically as she waved goodbye and headed through the swinging door to the back of the shop.

It has to be a front, Mark thought as he got back in the car. I probably have drugs or diamonds or something. I mean, who would suspect a cute, little bakery, right? He laid the box on the passenger seat and drove off.

He got back on the road and headed towards Fairbanks St. Mark looked at the clock on his dashboard: 2:20. He had expected to merely walk in, get the package and walk out, so the minute that he had gained on his trip to the bakery was gone. At least he wasn't behind, he thought.

Suddenly, he saw lights flash his rearview mirror. It was an unmarked police car, the blue and red lights coming from inside the front grill, just above the bumper. He looked at his speedometer: he was doing 75 in a 50. He considered stopping, but he’d never make his delivery time by then. He sped off.

The police car added a siren to the lights and gave chase. Mark's Mini was faster than the standard-issue Impala behind him—he had made some changes to his car, so his top speed was around 165—but the police officer had the advantage of getting the surrounding traffic to move out of the way. Mark whipped around cars, putting some distance between him and the cop, though not as much as he needed. He cut off a white minivan and made a right off the main road onto a residential street. He drove straight long enough to see if the cop had seen him turn. The car appeared about three-quarters of a mile behind him. He quickly made a left turn, followed by two rights and another left, scanning driveways as he drove. After another right turn, he found what he was looking for and backed into a long driveway, parked behind the large RV sitting there, and cut the engine.

How long should he sit there? Mark was now behind schedule by nearly three minutes. He could likely make that up, but he needed to get moving. He anxiously tapped the steering wheel with his middle finger and thumb, bouncing his hand back and forth. After nearly a minute of waiting, he decided the coast was clear and started the engine.

Mark pulled out of the driveway and made his way back to the main road. He wasn't familiar with this neighborhood and turned into a cul-de-sac before leaving the housing development. Just as he was turning onto the main street, the cop appeared behind him. You’ve got to be kidding me, Mark thought, shaking his head. He floored it.

Rather than try to lose the cop immediately, Mark just drove as fast as he could towards the drop-off point. It wasn't that simple, of course. The cop would undoubtedly call for backup and if Mark stayed on the most direct route, they'd likely cut him off or put down a spike strip. No, Mark had to keep them guessing as much as possible: head down Roland for eight blocks, cut across Colorado, double-back up Summit for three, before heading down a narrow alley and then back down Roland.

As Mark drove like this, two squad cars joined in the chase. Before long, Mark was finally only a few blocks away from the drop-off. It was going to be close, especially since these cops were on his tail like a rattle on a snake. Every turn he made, they were close enough behind him that he couldn't lose them. Mark realized that he was going to have to ditch his Mini soon and finish on foot, a fact he found incredibly annoying. He turned down a narrow street and saw that a large moving truck was backing up to a high rise apartment. He drove as fast as he could: if he could squeeze past the truck before it blocked the street, he'd have enough of a lead that he could ditch the cops; if he couldn’t, things were going to get ugly.

Mark gripped the wheel tightly as he drove on to the sidewalk and pressed down on the gas. Time seemed to stand still as moved his car close enough to the building that sparks flew from the his passenger side mirror before it was torn away. He held his breath as he slid past the truck, clipping the edge of the liftgate. The driver's side mirror flew off just as he cleared the truck. He looked in his remaining mirror to see the unmarked car try to make the same maneuver and get wedged between the building and the truck. Mark breathed out and turned down Sullivan, one block away from his destination.

He parked the car on the street before reaching into the glovebox and pulling out a dark brown wig and matching moustache. He removed the plastic backing from the 'stache, pressed the sticky side against his face, and slid the wig over his own red locks. He also retrieved a pair of aviator sunglasses from the compartment and pressed an unseen button near the top. He grabbed the package from its place on the passenger seat and exited the vehicle. He walked quickly, though not too quickly, down the sidewalk, turning at his first chance. Once around the corner, Mark pressed the automatic starter on his car's key fob, triggering the car to explode. He put the keys in his pants' pocket and kept walking.

Mark rang the bell of 3821 Fairbanks St at exactly 3:00. A petite middle-aged woman with short blonde hair answered the door of the stately townhouse.

"You made it!" she exclaimed, a look of relief washing across her face as soon as she laid eyes on Mark—or, more likely, the package Mark held. She reached out to take the pink box from him, but Mark held it just out of reach.

"There were complications," he said. "I want half again as much as we discussed."

The woman was taken aback. "That's not what we agreed."

"I agreed to take the job with the assumption that this would be a simple delivery," Mark said, his patience long since dried up. "Like I said, there were complications."

"It's not my fault you assumed this would be easier than it turned out," she said, reaching out for the box again, only for Mark to pull it away again.

"And it's not my fault that you need whatever's in this box. Pay me the new amount, I hand it over, we’re both happy."

The woman's eyes narrowed as she mulled over Mark's ultimatum. "Fine," she said, exasperated. She reached into her back pants' pocket and pulled out a smartphone. After a few taps, she returned the phone and told Mark that the payment had been made. Satisfied, Mark held the box out for the woman to take.

Just then, a silver-haired man appeared behind the woman.

"Honey, what's taking so long?" he asked her. "Is the birthday cake here? The kids are getting antsy."

The woman snatched the box away from Mark and passed it to the man behind her.

"The delivery driver just got here with it," she said, giving Mark a pointed look. Mark faced the man, a tight-lipped smile on face, and nodded.

"Perfect timing, son," the man, in a tone that struck Mark as an odd combination of appreciative and condescending. The man disappeared into the townhouse, leaving Mark and the woman alone once more.

"It was just a cake?" Mark asked through gritted teeth.

"I thought you didn't ask questions," she said after a pause.

"I'm asking this one," Mark said, spitting out his words. "Did I just deliver a cake?"

"I said I was desperate," she said, throwing her hands up. "My assistant had the nerve to shatter her pelvis and I was too busy to get the cake myself."

Mark sighed, shaking his head. "Lose my number. I'm not taking any more jobs from you. You're not worth the trouble."