Express Delivery

Logan wiped the excess lubricant from the chain on his single speed bicycle. The chain and cassette were in premium condition while the frame of the bike, dripping from the fresh London rain, showed wear from the thousands of miles it had labored as a messenger bike. Daily since dropping out of University at his hometown of Edinburgh, he labored 10 hours a day delivering parcels and envelopes. Logan looked at his phone for the address of his next delivery. 'Knightsbridge Flats, I can cut through Hyde Park' he said to himself. The parcel for delivery was a thick padded envelope, tan as desert sand, with a string looped in a figure eight sealing it shut. The only writing on the package was the name "Mr. Stevens.” He threw the parcel into his haversack, threw it over his shoulders and was off.

Time is money in the courier business. He sped his way down the cobblestone lanes. Dog walkers and geese streaked by as he pedaled down the footpaths of Hyde Park. Crossing the Long Water he pulled out his phone for directions. Minutes later he coasted into a stop in front of a 5-story flat, with reflective glass siding giving a modern appearance. "Flat 514,” he read off the address on his phone as he approached the door. He traced the intercom with his finger until he found 514 and pressed the buzzer. "Who is it?" cracked a voice from the speaker, with a tone of worry. "I'm from Carrier Express," said Logan with his Scottish lilt, "I have a delivery for you."

"Ok, hurry up." said the voice as the tone shifted from worry to a hint of frustration.

"Bzzzzur" went the door followed by the mechanical violence of the locks retracting.

Logan entered and walked into the right lift, pressing the 5th button at the top of the panel, as the left lift was occupied. "I'll have time for at least two more deliveries before lunch,” he thought to himself as he looked at the ever-changing listings of deliveries to be made on his phone. The ding of arrival at the top floor sounded and Logan stepped out into the hall.The lights in the hallway were out. Methodically he stepped towards number 514 he saw the door was ajar. Slowly, he neared the door, "Mr. Stevens?" he called into the flat as he steadily pushed the door open. The curtains moved around open windows, rising and falling on a fresh breeze from London’s streets. Items scattered the floor, cabinets thrown out of place, and pictures ripped from their place on the walls, frames smashed. "Mr. Stevens?" Logan asked again to no reply. The dread in his stomach evolved. Logan saw feet protruding from behind a futon. He approached them slowly, as inch by inch, a body revealed itself, not breathing, who Logan could only assume was Mr. Stevens. Panic set in, his heart pounding out of his chest. He stepped back from the body, mind racing, and felt a crunch beneath his feet. He slipped and fell backwards hitting his head on a coffee table. He put his hand to his head as he felt his heartbeat in his skull, his senses overwhelmed, and looked at what he stepped on. A cracked phone, screen still open, with an active 999 call running. Thoughts of what this would look like flooded Logan's mind, him alone with a dead man in an apartment were interrupted by the sounds of police sirens. He leapt up and looked out the window to see three police cars pull in front of the flats.

Logan's only thought was to get away. He rushed out the doors, down the fire escape, and into the alleyway where he left his bike. He clambered on and forced the gears to move with superhuman power, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

"Oi get back here!" shouted an officer as Logan sped away down the narrow alley.

Racing down the roads of Knightsbridge, Logan couldn't place where he was. Disoriented and confused to how his world could be turned upside down in a mere 5 minutes. He rode and rode until he saw a familiar sight, a pub he frequented in between deliveries. He pulled in front of the pub, too fast, and fell from his bike. Shaking his head to refocus, he chained his bike to a post and headed inside the pub. The dark mahogany walls with leather-covered benches eased his mind slightly. He grabbed a pint from the barman and headed to a corner he had found comfort in many times before. Sitting down, he took a long pour of dark ale down his throat. The liquid cooled his core and cooled his mind as he thought what to do next.

Suddenly it struck him that he still had the parcel in his bag. He pulled the parcel out and laid it on the table. Staring at the name Mr. Stevens, he untwined the string and peered inside. His breath stopped as he saw the contents. Two stacks of $100 bills, American currency, and a small black notebook with leather covering and an elastic band holding it shut. He pulled out the money and counted it. $20,000, nearly a year of work for him! He glanced around the pub for prying eyes. Only one man, clothed in a mud-stained overcoat was at the bar, his attention enveloped in his own dwindling beer. Alone in his find, he put the money back into the envelope and pulled out the notebook. Opening it up, he found pages and pages of drawings. Mechanical schematics bordered by equations and what Logan vaguely knew to be thermo-dynamic equations from his time at University. “Is this what got Mr. Stevens killed", he thought? “Or were some thugs simply after the money in the parcel?" This book intrigued him, what the equations meant, what the drawings resembled. He was no engineer after his short time at University, but he did his best to decipher what he held in his hands. The book eased his mind, despite his circumstance. These pages held secrets. If only he could understand them—perhaps he could find a solution to the mess he’s in.

Many pints and many hours later, his mind and body warm from the ale, he began to put together what the schematics represented. Drawings of pistons and camshafts led him to realize he was looking at some type of design for a car engine, but unlike any he had ever seen. Hidden among the pages of equations littering the notebook was one equation that Logan could discern. It was an efficiency equation, and if the math was true, it explained that this engine could be up to 65 percent efficient.

A wave of sobriety hit him, and his heart began to race. He sat up realizing what he had in his hands. A 65 percent efficient engine, compared to what he knew from university, is almost double what any modern day petrol engine can provide. These drawings in his hands would change the world. What he held in his hands was worth millions, perhaps billions. Awe succumbed to panic as he realized just how dangerous his situation might be with the information he carried. "I'll take this to the police and then it’s not my problem" he thought to himself knowing whoever wanted this was prepared to kill as they already had. "Perhaps I'll get a finders fee for the cash,” he dreamed as he stowed the book into his bag, “then I can move into my own flat, but this is no time to worry about that."

His mind resolute on a plan, wishing that there was some evidence to exonerate him from bolting from the crime scene, he headed out the door to find the police station.

The sky had moved to a dark blue as night set in, streetlights reflecting off the damp roads. He grabbed his bike, hopped on the saddle, pedaled out into the road, looked left and was blinded by headlights streaking towards him. The car rammed into him, throwing him from his bike onto the cobblestones, striking his head on the soaked street. Dazed and shaking he propped himself up. It was all he could do to focus on the man getting out of the car as a throbbing pain grew in the back of his head. That’s when he recognized the man from the bar, along with two others, running at him. The men grabbed him by the arms and dragged him into the backseat. Before he could take in what was happening his hands were zip-tied and something dragged over his head and everything went black.

The small amount of light that came from the hood allowed him to see shapes, but nothing identifiable. They drove in silence for near a half hour it seemed, any protest Logan made was answered by yelling and a blow to the head. Were they responsible for what happened to Mr. Stevens? They had to be.

The car lurched as it left paved road, followed by the grinding and pinging of gravel hitting the bottom of the car. Pain shot through his body as his head hit the window when the car made a sudden right turn onto some very smooth pavement. The car stopped. He heard the doors open, then rough hands grabbed him under his armpits and pulled him from the car, his feet limp, the rubber of his shoes dragging on what felt like smooth concrete. He was forced onto his knees Yelling and shouting all around him flooded his ears, then in one motion the hood was snatched from is head, and blinding lights were followed by absolute silence.

Slowly his vision adjusted, flood lamps still obscuring most of his surroundings, the sound of footsteps rang out in what he could only guess was an abandoned hanger. A man emerged from the light, silhouetted in Logan's view. His steps slow, intentional with their placement, the fear in Logan building as the the man grew larger and nearer. Only when the man was merely a foot away and knelt down could Logan see his face. His eyes grey as the moon, surrounded by a weathered face and a thin beard peppered with grey whiskers. Logan's eyes glanced down to see the man pulling a pistol from his coat pocket, holding it gingerly but with familiarity in his workman's hands.

"Where is the book?" asked the grey eyed man quietly, which unsettled Logan even further. His accent thick, not a native English accent, Eastern European likely. Logan not sure if he would be able to speak, responded, “... my bag."

“We have searched the bag. It is not in there,” grumbled a voice from behind the lights.

A searing pain filled Logan’s head as the man whipped him with the base of the gun, knocking him on his side, his shoulder hitting the ground hard. He couldn't get up.

"I will only ask this one more time. Where is the book?" This time the man pointed the gun pointed toward him as he lay on the ground. He heard the click of the hammer pulling back.

"I swear it was in the bag when they grabbed me!" shouted Logan. It must have fallen out when he got hit by the car.

Suddenly men streamed in from all directions, a dozen at least, guns raised, "Police! Drop your weapons!"

The hanger filled with yelling from both sides as the thugs raised their weapons at the intruders, the grey eyed man still pointing his at Logan, breathing fast and afraid to move.

Mere seconds passed, but it felt like hours to Logan as both sides blasted insults in the standoff. Each man looked to the next for what they should do when the violence in air was shattered by the crack of a single shot.