Page 14 of Property of Chux

I don’t know how to explain it. The two prospects were rough around the edges but they didn’t make my entire body feelelectrified like the Chux man. The overall presence of him as he kept his eyes locked to mine was more than I’ve ever experienced before. Intense is the only way I can describe the entire thing

I try not to think about it as I head toward the back door, expecting my bulk order of flour and sugar to have arrived overnight. My supplier’s been good about leaving deliveries before dawn, and I need the stock for this weekend’s wedding cake. It should have been here three days ago, but some mix up happened and not a single part of my order came in. I’m on pins and needles to get this because frankly I’m behind schedule.

When I swing the door open, my stomach sinks.

There’s a pallet as expected alright—except that is the only thing as it should be. The pallet is wrapped in thick black plastic around the sides, stacked with heavy brown boxes inside that covering.

Not the usual white bags labeled with the supplier’s logo.

Frowning, I grab the box cutter from my apron pocket and slice through the plastic, tearing it back to get a better look. My fingers find the corner of a cardboard box lid, and I pry it open.

Then my breath stops.

Inside, neatly stacked in perfect rows, are literal bricks of something wrapped in duct tape. I can see hints of a white powder between the tape but mostly it’s just rectangle blocks covering in tape.

Not sugar.

Not flour. Not a single thing I’m supposed to be receiving.

I stumble back, my hands shaking.

No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

I know what this is. I don’t live under a rock. I’ve watched enough television shows.

Cocaine, most likely. A drug of some sort without a doubt, but my instincts says it’s cocaine.

Kilos of cocaine, sitting at my back door like a package from Amazon.

My pulse hammers through my neck, a cold sweat breaking over my skin.

Why the hell is this here? Who put it here? And how did they get my bakery’s address?

I take another staggered step back, my brain screaming at me to do something, anything, before this situation blows up in my face.

Fight, flight, or freeze is the typical response from anyone else.

My reaction to trouble is easy.

Yes, with shaking hands, I grab my phone and dial the one person who might have answers.

"Ally?" My grandfather’s voice comes through, calm as always.

"Dedushka," I whisper, fighting to keep my voice steady, even though my hands are trembling so bad I can barely keep the phone to my ear. "There’s a shipment here that isn’t mine."

There’s a pause. An extended one.

"Ally…" he exhales, and suddenly his voice isn’t so calm.

I grip the phone tighter. "I don’t know what to do. It’s not mine. But I can’t give it to anyone and I can’t keep it."

Another pause.

Then, in the background, I hear another voice.

"Give me the phone." Low. Deep. Demanding.

I freeze. My stomach does a summersault.

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