Michael (Prologue).

 

A red Escort was slowly driving down the street. Michael, standing in the crosswalk, eyed it carefully, glanced right and left again. He made sure there was no traffic except the Ford, and when it passed the crosswalk, he sauntered off.

Suddenly, the bag of a passing brunette struck his hand.

"Excuse me!" the woman shouted without breaking stride.

Michael turned around quickly. The running figure was heading towards the park. "

It's not important. Look around."

He bent down, reaching for a nonexistent object on the asphalt, using the moment to discreetly scan the passersby. Seeing nothing suspicious, he suddenly tensed and jumped. He ran after the woman as fast as he could.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he gasped. "I think you've lost something."

He reached into his pocket for a lighter. His own lighter.

"Right there at the crosswalk."

The woman looked at the object in surprise. She looked at Michael.

"I'm afraid it's not mine," she replied. A friendly smile appeared on her face.

Despite a few faint wrinkles, her delicate, shapely features caught Michael's eye. He stared into a pair of hazel eyes, almost unconsciously estimating her age to be around thirty. "

Concentrate. Don't bother with the woman. They might be here.

" "Oh, sorry," he muttered, embarrassed, as if he'd actually made a mistake. "I made a mistake."

He'd deliberately stopped that way earlier, so he could observe the alley he'd come down without having to turn his head. "

Watch if anyone's running! Focus!"

He couldn't concentrate, unable to tear his gaze away from the woman.

"Are you trying to hit on me?" It seemed to him that the hazel eyes had taken on a cold expression. "

Watch, watch! It could be anyone.

" "Yes, exactly. Sorry." He lowered his gaze, and for some reason, he felt embarrassed. He hadn't even intended to.

Move your ass, Romeo!" You just needed an excuse to make sure no one would run after you.

"Damn it," Michael thought. "Even if they did, what's wrong with that?" He examined the delicate face again. Hazel eyes, beautiful features, glossy dark hair—he felt that he was really attracted to this woman, even though she looked a few years older than him.

"Oh come on, don't apologize." Instead of coldness, he saw a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "Maybe we can go out for coffee." She bit her lower lip for a moment, then gently moistened her lips with her tongue, staring questioningly at Michael.

"I'd love to," he replied. "But today...actually, I'm in a hurry...I can't." His heart was pounding.

"Well, that's too bad," she sighed. "I'll have to go alone." "But if you ever want to give me that lighter back," she laughed softly. "Well, he had some time. Here's my number."

She pulled a piece of paper from her purse, wrote it down in tiny numbers, and smiled again, handing it to the astonished Michael.

"I'll be on my way. Bye," she whispered. He followed her figure with his eyes, examining the gently billowing, flowing dress. He glanced at the note.

"Alice," he read. He glanced again at the woman disappearing behind the trees. "

Focus at last! You have to be sure no one has followed you."

He was sure, at least for a moment. He breathed a sigh of relief. The premonition that had been nagging him that someone was following him proved false. He thought of Alice with a smile.

The relaxation didn't last long, however. He felt his stomach tighten with fear again.

You're an amateur. If they're following you, they must be professionals. You have to be absolutely sure.

Walking slowly toward the spot where he'd first encountered Alicja, he tried unsuccessfully, even for a moment, to forget her, to focus on the people, the faces.

Look for anything suspicious. Trust your intuition. That's all you have now.

A man in a worn black jacket was leaning against a newsstand. He seemed absorbed in a newspaper, but in reality, he was discreetly observing the pedestrian crossing where Michael had suddenly turned and dashed toward the park. The man was too experienced to be fooled. A runner is easily noticed. Even an amateur knew that.

"No way, little boy. I'll wait here until you get back. I know you'll come back anyway."

He wasn't mistaken. Michael reappeared on the crosswalk, glancing right and left a few times. An outside observer wouldn't have noticed anything unusual. But the man knew it could only mean one thing—the object was looking around. Unpracticed, amateurish, but looking around. So he expected company.

"No way," he muttered.

He was certain the man being followed wouldn't be able to spot him. He was now part of the street, an elderly, heavily graying man with a nondescript, unremarkable face. He moved with a slow, almost phlegmatic gait, with the difficulty often seen in older people. Not a limp or a limp, for that draws attention, but simply a slow, unsteady gait. Perfect camouflage, provided he didn't make mistakes. And he had been trained not to.

Michael crossed the narrow, one-way street, turned left, and, constantly looking around, approached the kiosk. He studied the three men standing nearby. Two of them, gesticulating wildly, were discussing some important issue, while the third, an older man in a black jacket, seemed to have no interest in his colleagues' conversation, and was leafing through a newspaper with interest.

Nothing worth mentioning.

Pretending to find his wallet, Michael glanced back again. Nothing again.

He glanced at the newspapers behind the window, then, as if abandoning the purchase, continued along the sidewalk.

The man with the newspaper waited a moment. He knew what was coming, and as if confirming his suspicions, Michael took only three steps, then suddenly turned, scanned the street, and headed in the previously chosen direction. The man waited again. Making sure there wasn't another sudden movement from the man he was following, he set off with the calm gait of an elderly man.

Michael felt a cold trickle of sweat on his forehead.

"Am I wrong? Is there no one there?

Be careful, you might simply miss him. Remember, he's a professional."

After about a hundred meters, the street curved slightly, narrowing the road to the width of a single car, and the new, recently built houses gave way to old, neglected tenements.

Michael looked at the shabby buildings in disbelief. Nothing had changed there for many years, as if some magical force had stopped time.

You could escape. If anything, it was only here. Run!

He knew this neighborhood. He'd grown up here; as a child, he'd known every nook and cranny. Suddenly, old memories resurfaced: the cellars that served as dungeons, where the Grand Master, the fat Kuba, the shopkeeper's son, locked up enemies of the Order; the labyrinthine courtyards and corridors where they played hide-and-seek; the attics, filled with the smell of smoke, the best hiding places and hiding places for treasure.

He easily recreated the layout of the passages and corridors in his mind. He hoped that, just as much as the outside, nothing had changed inside.

Remember the brown tenement house?

Of course he did. It was the one across the street, inconspicuous, tucked between two large, five-story buildings. Perhaps the most neglected of them all.

He recalled its long, narrow, and always dark corridor. A wonderful place. Entering a dark room from a brightly lit street, a person was momentarily frozen in place as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Most importantly, behind the bend in the wall lay a hidden second exit, practically invisible to anyone who didn't know it was there. It led to a tiny courtyard from where, through another tenement building, one could escape to the neighboring street. The only drawback was the lack of additional doors leading from the courtyard to other tenement buildings, which would allow him to evade pursuit.

Tough luck. This was the only option. Hold on to it.

When Michael found himself facing the entrance to the tenement building, he stopped and crouched down. Although his shoelaces seemed to be holding tight, he began to adjust them, trying to observe the street.

Again, he saw nothing.

He felt cold sweat trickle down his body, and his heart leaped into his throat. He looked back once more.

A slightly shuffling older man in a black jacket, completely absorbed in his reading, walked past him and took a few steps away. "

Now!"

Unaware of the intruder's proximity, Michael broke into a run toward the road. The furious screech of the truck's tires braking and the terrifying proximity of its massive bulk made him realize his mistake.

Run!

There was no time to analyze the situation in which, moments earlier, he had inadvertently almost been massacred by the truck. He had to run. Not a moment to waste.

Quick!

Get inside as quickly as possible.

* * *

He forced open the small wooden door and found himself inside. The vicious stench of urine immediately assaulted him. He tried to penetrate the darkness, only slightly illuminated by the light from the dirt-brown lightbulb dangling from its cord. But it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He glanced around the room. He spotted an archaic wooden staircase.

"They creak," he thought at the sight of them. "They announce their presence with a loud groan, always when someone climbs them." They fall off.

The cellar door, carelessly nailed together from old, rotting boards, someone had fitted with a padlock.

"They fall off."

He glanced around again.

"There it is"—he spotted what he was looking for—"the second exit."

The lock creaked, squeaked desperately, but gave way. The small yard was bathed in shadow. He ran through it, nearly trampling a terrified cat and knocking over the trash cans placed in the middle. He reached the place where he expected to find the door. It

wasn't there. And it had clearly been gone for quite some time, because the wall that had been built in its place had already cracked and threatened to collapse.

He cursed under his breath. He heard the ominous creaking of the lock.

"It's there!"

He ran back through the yard. He pushed with all his might on the doorknob. She moaned softly, but this time she didn't let go. He tugged furiously a few more times. Still to no avail.

"Fuck," he said, "I made a mistake.

An unforgivable mistake. I let an amateur fool me. "

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This is the beginning of a longer story (intended) in which not much happens so far, but all signs point to it starting soon.

Currently, just a short sample of my style, awaiting critical comments.

The next part will appear soon. At least, that's what I hope.