In the next moment the massive steel gates did not simply shut but slammed closed with a deafening crash that seemed to seal the world from view. In the warehouse there were great, crawling shadows, dark and sinister. The few low-hanging overhead lights cast a dying orange glow over everything. Long, distorted forms of darkness stretched across the rows of rusty cargo boxes. The air was a heavy, thick mire of decaying harbor water, heavy machinery lubricant, and metal.
Leon's small hand was a cold, shaking ball in Adélard's grip. The boy walked with his head bowed, staring at the bottoms of Adélard's worn boots. He ignored how much the flooring creaked when they moved as if the spirits of all those men that Adélard had beaten to near death were watching them.
Hector remained seated. He sat in an ornate, backless armchair that resembled something salvaged from a wrecked ship behind several rough wooden tables. The top of the tables was cluttered with torn ledgers, partially empty bottles of cheap red wine and crates that had been opened and then left unsealed. The only constant throughout the chaos of shadow was the small, glowing ember of Hector's cigarette, a bright, angry eye watching them come.
"Sit," Hector ordered. He did not raise his head. His voice was a scraping shovel on dry gravel. He waved at one of the overturned crates with a nicotine-yellowed finger.
Adélard did not sit. He towered over the space, his muscular body outlined against the faint light. Still vibrating with the raw energy of having just beaten nearly to death three drunken dockworkers on the wharf. His knuckles were cracked, and dried blood had formed jagged cracks. Also, a dull ache was developing in his rib cage from a heavy boot that had landed on him during the brawl. Yet his gaze was unwavering – a chunk of flint fixed on Hector.
"I'm not here to rest, Hector," Adélard stated in a deep, menacing tone. "Tell me exactly where my mother is. Tell me what I have to do to get her back."
Hector chuckled loudly — a slow, rattling cough. For the first time he raised his gaze above the table and the smoke from his cigarette. Deep lines carved into his leathery skin as the dim light fell upon his face. "You've got your dad's anger problem, Aschemist. Anger gets people killed quickly in this port. You're seventeen years old. You beat up some blind drunk dock workers because of the fog. That doesn't make you partners. That makes you tools."
He placed a tap on a small unassuming package sitting in the middle of the table. It was wrapped in coarse brown paper and bound tightly with a thick, grimy string that looked as though it had been yanked from a sewer drain. It was smaller than a large book but emitted an unmistakable coldness that made the hairs on the back of Adélard's neck rise.
"Your mom was to carry this into the Vieux Port last night," Hector muttered softly. "It would have been a simple exchange of goods to an address that does not technically exist. Your mom hesitated. She let fear control her. Rourke pays for results, not for fear."
Leon's tight grasp on Adélard's jacket tightened even further. A loud, jagged cry came from Leon's throat. Adélard experienced an explosion of rage -- to jump over the table and grab hold of Hector's throat with both hands covered in dried blood -- but he suffocated it. He had to be a ghost; he had to be a tool.
"Tonight at midnight, a shipment will arrive at the lower wharfs — black market salvage from overseas. You'll manage the docking. Make sure everyone stays awake and moves quickly while unloading. After completing your assignment you deliver this package to the designated location. Do not examine its contents. Do not talk to anybody else. If you consider making a run for it... don't forget that Marseille has very long arms."
"And my mother?" Adélard asked in a voice like iron.
"If you confirm successful delivery by sunrise tomorrow, she goes free," Hector replied with a smirk etched into his leathery face. "If not... well, the Mediterranean is very deep and it always returns nothing it takes."
Adélard didn't say anything else. He extended his hand firmly and moved the brown-paper package toward himself. He slipped it into the interior pocket of his frayed denim jacket. It weighed heavily against his chest like a slab of lead.
He turned sharply and began to pull Leon along with him. They traversed the warehouse in silence and in the growing darkness the towering boxes became labyrinths that appeared to be sealing themselves in on either side.
When the huge steel gates finally swung open for them once again they stepped outside into a dismal Marseille afternoon. The sun hung behind layers of haze like a pale yellow disk that was losing brightness rapidly as dusk drew closer.
Their journey through the maze-like residential banlieues was like walking through a gauntlet of tension. Adélard continually swept each alleyway, each roof line with an almost desperate sense of vigilance. He knew that Rourke's eyes were on them now.
By the time they arrived at their building Adélard was walking slowly. His senses screamed warnings and he could smell it before he saw it — the sweet odor of splintered wood mixed with the sharp metallic taste of someone breaking into locks.
"Stay right behind me, Leon," Adélard whispered urgently as his heart pounded violently against his chest cavity.
He pushed open their basement apartment door without using a key since the latch had been snapped completely off and twisted beyond recognition.
Inside their sanctuary lay destroyed. Her belongings were strewn across the floor, the mattresses had been ripped apart, and their single small window was broken allowing cold drafts from outside to blow through the room.
There was no doubt that no place was safe for them. Rourke did not wait for them to complete their deliveries; he hovered over their existence.
Adélard did not pause to grieve for their lost sanctuary or worry about their future; he seized a small canvas duffle bag containing Leon's extra sweater and a heavy iron pipe Adélard kept stashed in their subterranean living area for emergencies. Then he pulled Leon back out into the twilight-lit hallway.
"We cannot stay here," Leon whispered trembling with terror which shattered Adélard's heart.
"I know, we are going somewhere safe," Adélard lied with his expression turning as rigid as stone.
They made their way through narrow alleys lined with cement box-style housing units known as "cage apartments". They were surrounded by music blasting from cars speeding past: Marseilles' own hip-hop rhythms booming about fighting and betrayal — soundscape to their desperation. They did not stop until they reached a tiny, cramped store wedged between a bakery and a pawn shop.
Sam's Stitches.
Adélard pushed open the door and rang out the tinny chime attached to it. The warm dusty scent of wool and hot iron wafted through Sam's Stitches, a stark contrast to the brutality of the docks. Old Sam sat huddled over his sewing machine with his brow wrinkled in concentration working on repairing a worn-out coat.
As soon as they entered Sam's eyes shifted from Adélard's battered hands to Leon's traumatized appearance. Sam did not inquire why; he did not have to ask; he understood the look of families being hunted from years of living within Marseille.
"I require a favor, Sam," Adélard spoke in strained but firm tones. "Our flat has been hit... I must return to the docks tonight to complete what Mom began... I cannot bring him with me. Will you keep him?"
Sam let out a long exhausted breath that seemed to deflate his thin frame entirely as he regarded Leon — normally full of questions and energy — standing frozen like a spirit in Sam's Stitches.
He pointed at an old cot located behind a wall constructed of woolen bolts lining most of one end of Sam's Stitches.
"He can stay," Sam declared bluntly in a harsh tone layered beneath an obvious kind-heartedness.
"Don't become a monster to combat those at the docks," Sam cautioned quietly as Adélard knelt beside Leon ruffling his golden blond hair — an action that seemed to belong in another life-time altogether.
"You'll be safe with Sam, Leon. You just stay behind that counter and don't go near those windows, and don't open that door for anyone but me. I'll be back at dawn with mom. Do you understand?"
Slowly, Leon nodded as he clutched a piece of silk Adélard had given him to fidget with. "Brother...it's so dark outside. Please don't go."
Adélard whispered through the thin veil of emotion, "I am your shield, Leon. And you are my strength. Take care of yourself for me."
With a firm jaw, Adélard turned and walked away from Leon and the shop, and didn't look back; if he looked back and saw Leon crying, he would never make it out of there.
When Adélard made it to the lower docks, the darkness had fallen completely. The mistral had stopped blowing, and the docks were quiet and still with a cool dampness. The cranes that supported the dockyard stretched high above the water, and cast long black shadows on the oil slick-covered ground.
Reaching into his jacket, Adélard felt around for the metal pipe and the mystery item. At this point, he was no longer the teenage boy who was desperate to find his mom. He was a monster born from the streets of the banlieue, and Rourke was about to see what happens when a cornered animal has lost everything.
As the midnight bell tolled in the nearby cathedral, Adélard moved into the shadows of the warehouse ready to pay whatever cost needed to save his mother.