Page 3 of Tracking Shadows

“Where are you taking me?” My voice cracks, sounding small and terrified, even to my own ears.

“Shut up,” one of the men snaps, shoving me forward. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

They drag me toward one of the buildings, a squat, gray structure with barred windows and a heavy metal door. One of the men raps on the door, and after a moment, it swings open with a loud creak.

Inside, it’s dark and cold, the walls lined with metal shelves and crates. The air is stale, and there’s a faint hum of machinery coming from somewhere deep within the building. I’m shoved forward, stumbling over my own feet as I’m led down a narrow hallway.

Finally, we reach a small room at the end of the hall. The door is pushed open, and I’m thrown inside. I hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of me as I land on my side. The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing in the small space.

I struggle to sit up, my wrists burning where the ties have rubbed the skin raw. The room is bare, with just four concrete walls and a single flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There’s a metal chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room and a small table with a few items on it that I can’t make out in the dim light.

My head is throbbing, and I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I’m terrified, more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t understand what’s happening, why they’ve taken me, or what they want.

But then the door opens again, and two men step inside. They’re both wearing dark suits, their faces hard and cold. One of them is holding a briefcase, the other a phone. They don’t speak to me; they just walk over to the table and start setting things out. I try to push myself further back into the corner.

“Your parents,” the man with the phone says suddenly, low and menacing. “They’re on their way.”

My blood runs cold.

My parents? What do they have to do with this?

“Please,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Let me go.”

“Soon enough,” he replies, glancing at his watch. “As soon as they get here.”

It’s maybe an hour later when I hear footsteps echoing down the hallway, growing louder and louder until they stop just outside the door. My whole body tenses, and I strain to hear what’s happening. There’s a muffled argument, voices raised in anger, and then the door bursts open.

“Alexei!” My mother’s voice is frantic and desperate.

I look up, and there she is, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with terror. My father is right behind her, his face pale,and his hands are clenched into fists. For a split second, relief floods through me. They found me. I’m safe.

But then I see the men flanking them, guns drawn, and the realization hits me like a freight train. This isn’t a rescue. This is something else. Something much, much worse.

“Mom, Dad,” I choke out, struggling to get to my feet. The ties cut deeper into my wrists as I try to pull free. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

“We’re going to get you out of here, sweetheart,” my mother says, but there’s a tremor in her voice that betrays her fear. “Just stay calm.”

My father’s eyes flick to the men standing beside them, then back to me. “Alexei, listen to me. Whatever happens, you stay quiet, you understand? Don’t say a word.”

“I—” My voice breaks. “I don’t understand. What do they want?”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks at the man with the briefcase, his jaw tight. “Let him go. You have what you want.”

The man with the briefcase steps forward, opening it to reveal stacks of money neatly bundled and secured. “This is what we want?” he asks.

My father nods. “It’s all there. Now let my son go.”

“Your son?” The man laughs, but it’s a harsh, bitter sound. “You really don’t know, do you? Your son is just a pawn in this game.”

My father’s face goes white. “What are you talking about?”

The man with the briefcase snaps it shut and hands it to one of the other men. “Your son was born into something he shouldn’t have. It’s a shame, really. He could have lived a nice, quiet life.”

I can see the confusion on my father’s face, mirrored by my mother’s. But then the man pulls something else out of the briefcase—a small, clear plastic bag filled with white powder. He tosses it onto the table, and my mother’s gasp is like a punch to the gut.

“No,” she whispers, shaking her head. “No, it’s not true. We stopped—”

“You never stop,” the man interrupts. “Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”