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One
Magnus Jorgensen
“You’re going alone, Boss?” my right hand, Bo, asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.
“Yes. You think I can’t handle myself?” I ask, my voice deadly serious.
“It’s not that. Of course, it’s not that,” he says, backtracking.
“Then what is it?”
“You don’t know what you are walking into over there. It could be an ambush.”
“It’s an auction, Bo.”
“Yeah. What’s that about, Boss?”
“What do you mean?”
“Normally, we’re putting a stop to these. Why are you patronizing it?”
“I didn’t say I was buying,” I reply, and that’s the thing. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I can’t stop thinking about it since I heard about it. I’ve done my due diligence. I know there are elements of this auction that I won’t agree with, but I’m not going to that underground shit. Something… I’m unsure what it is telling me. All I’m sure of is that I need to be in Budapest in three days, so that’s where I’ll be.
“I don’t like this at all.” The mutinous look in his eye and tone tells me I’ve given him too much leeway. That ends today.
“Good thing you aren’t the boss, isn’t it? Tell Om I’m ready to see him.” Om Jorgensen is my grandfather’s brother’s late-in-life son. He’s been with me since I started this life of crime a few years ago, and I should have just made him my right hand, which I’m about to do.
“You wanted to see me?” Om says, coming into my open office door.
“I did. How’s Taryn and Aaden?”
“Doing good, but I’m sure you didn’t call me in here to ask me something you can ask me any Sunday at dinner?”
“You’re right, I didn’t. Bo has got to go. Take care of it for me.”
“How?”
“However you see fit. He’s been questioning everything of late and I won’t have that.”
“It’s done.”
“You’re in charge until I get back on Monday.”
“Of course. Everything will be fine. I’ll have it taken care of before then.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
“Welcome to Hungary. Are you here for business or pleasure?” I turn to look at the Hungarian Customs Officer, unsure how to answer his question. My reasons for entering this country are my own, but I know the man is just doing his job. My flight from Anchorage, Alaska, was long. I flew first class, but unless you go private, it still sucks.
“Business.”
“And how long will you be in the country?”
“Two days.”
“Very well. Enjoy Budapest,” he says as he stamps my passport.
