An Unscheduled Pickup at the Portage Bridge

A low-level courier's simple drop-off at The Forks devolves into a nightmare of paranoia when the meet goes wrong. Trapped in the open and carrying a package he was warned not to inspect, he learns the hard way that in his line of work, being the messenger means you are also the most disposable target.

The weight was wrong. That was the first thing. The first sign that today was going to be a departure from the usual sweat-and-grease routine of his life. Kyle had been a bike courier in Winnipeg for six months, long enough to develop a kinetic vocabulary for the city’s commerce.

He knew the dense, satisfying slab of architectural blueprints, the airy lightness of a box of macarons, the discreet heft of a hard drive slid into a padded envelope. He even knew the nervous, shifting weight of illicit party favours, usually a little baggie of something that felt like packed flour, tucked inside a hollowed-out book.

This was none of those things. The canvas of the messenger bag dug a trench into his shoulder, a dead, irregular weight that didn’t settle. When he shifted on the park bench, its contents moved with him, a dull, muffled clinking sound, like a handful of heavy bolts wrapped in an old t-shirt. It was a weight that felt like trouble.

The instructions from the man he knew only as ‘Mr. Pat’ had been delivered in the usual clipped, staticky whisper over the burner phone. Three rules, the unholy trinity of his side hustle.

Rule one: Don’t look in the bag. He was succeeding at that, mostly out of a deep and abiding fear of what he might find.

Rule two: Don’t be late. He’d failed that one spectacularly. His cheap digital watch showed 2:14 PM. The meet was for two o'clock sharp. Fourteen minutes in this world was an eternity, a void into which all manner of bad things could creep.

Rule three: Don't be noticed. That was the biggest joke of all. He was drenched in sweat, his grey t-shirt clinging to his spine like a second skin. He felt less like a person and more like a giant, blinking neon sign that read: NERVOUS GUY WITH A SUSPICIOUS BAG.

He sat on the designated bench overlooking the sluggish green-brown sweep of the Assiniboine River. To his left, the glass and Tyndall stone of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights clawed at the prairie sky. To his right, the Esplanade Riel pedestrian bridge stretched across the water. It was a perfect summer afternoon, and the river walk was teeming with life. Tourists, office workers on a late lunch, families. Normal people living normal lives.

He was trying to project an aura of casual boredom. He’d spent two dollars on a bottle of water from a vendor near the Forks Market, and now he was nursing it, taking slow, deliberate sips. The plastic crinkled loudly in the quiet space between his frantic thoughts. The contact was supposed to be a man in a Goldeyes baseball cap, reading a newspaper. An easy spot. Except it wasn’t.

He counted five, no, six Goldeyes caps in his immediate vicinity. One was on a teenager trying to land a kickflip on his skateboard, the cap worn backwards. One was on a portly grandfather buying his grandkids ice cream cones that were already starting to drip down their hands. Another was on a sun-weathered man asleep on a bench further down the path, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. None of them held a newspaper. They were all just… people. Part of the scenery. And Kyle was the one thing that didn't fit.

His right leg started to bounce, a frantic, jackhammer rhythm against the interlocking brick of the path. He tried to still it, pressing his hand down on his knee, but the nervous energy was a current running through him, demanding an outlet. Every person who walked past seemed to linger on him for a second too long. A woman pushing a double stroller, her expression weary. A man in a crisp business suit, his voice a low murmur into his phone as his polished shoes clicked past. A gaggle of teenagers, their laughter sharp and loud, their eyes flicking over him with casual disdain. Any one of them could be the contact. Or surveillance. The two felt interchangeable right now.

He needed to get a grip. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. He forced himself to breathe, a slow inhale through the nose, a shaky exhale through the mouth. He scanned the area again, more methodically this time, trying to see it not as a park, but as a map. A grid. Look for the anomalies, the pieces that don't belong.

His eyes caught on a man leaning against the steel railing of the pedestrian bridge. He wasn’t looking at the river or the skyline. He was looking down, in Kyle’s general direction. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, stuffed into a dark windbreaker that was completely wrong for the humid afternoon. There was a stillness about him that was alien to the relaxed summer vibe of everyone else on the bridge. He wasn't enjoying the view. He was working.

A cold lump formed in Kyle’s gut. He tore his gaze away, his heart starting to thud against his ribs like a trapped bird. Don’t stare. Don’t let them know you see them. He focused on the other side of the path, toward a stand of old oak trees. And then he saw the second one.

He was thin and wiry, dressed in track pants and a hoodie, pretending to stretch against a thick trunk. But his posture was all wrong. He wasn't relaxed. He wasn’t stretching out a cramp. He was coiled, his body held in a state of tense readiness, like a predator waiting for the signal to move. His eyes, even from this distance, were watchful. Fixed.

This was bad. This was worse than late, worse than a weird bag. He’d done dozens of these drops for Mr. Pat. Anonymous handoffs in back alleys, dead drops in library book returns, quick exchanges in crowded coffee shops. They were always impersonal, efficient, and over in less than a minute. This was different. This was a stakeout. And he was sitting right in the middle of it.

His burner phone vibrated, a harsh, angry buzz against his ribs that made him jump. He fumbled it out of his jean pocket, his sweaty thumb smearing the cheap plastic screen. UNKNOWN CALLER. It had to be Pat.

"Yeah?" He answered, his voice coming out as a reedy croak. He cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for casual. "Hello?"

"Change of plans." Pat’s voice wasn’t a whisper. It was lower than that, a gravelly rasp that sounded like it was being scraped directly against the microphone. There was no greeting, no preamble. "The bench is compromised. You’re mobile. Get up and walk towards the Human Rights Museum. The main east entrance."

Compromised. The word was a gunshot in his ear, confirming every paranoid fear that had been metastasizing in his chest for the last twenty minutes. The men watching him weren't Pat's overwatch. They were someone else's.

"There's a silver car," Pat continued, his voice a relentless, low hum. "A Toyota Camry, waiting at the passenger drop-off loop. Licence plate ends in J-four-five. The back door on the passenger side will be unlocked. Get in, leave the bag on the seat, get out the other side. Do not look at the driver. Do not speak to the driver. You have ninety seconds. Go."

"I see two guys," Kyle whispered, cupping his hand around the phone, turning his head as if fascinated by a nearby flowerbed. His heart hammered. "One on the bridge, one by the trees. I think… I think they’re watching me."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. It wasn't a thoughtful pause. It was a dead, empty space that lasted exactly two heartbeats. Long enough for Kyle to feel completely and utterly alone.

"Then you better start walking," Pat said, his voice flat, devoid of any concern. "And look like you belong there. Now."

The line went dead.

Kyle snapped the phone shut, his hand shaking. His body screamed at him to do the opposite of what Pat said. It screamed at him to stand up, hurl the bag into the river, and run until his lungs burned and his legs gave out. Disappear. But he knew it wasn't that simple. Mr. Pat knew his real name. He knew the address of his peeling, one-room apartment in the West End. Running wouldn’t just delay the inevitable; it would likely accelerate it in a very painful way. He had no choice.

He pushed himself to his feet on legs that felt like hollow tubes filled with jelly. He slung the heavy bag over his shoulder, the clinking sound a sickening reminder of the unknown thing he was carrying. He took a deep breath that did nothing to calm him and started walking towards the museum.

Every step was a monumental effort of will. He forced his eyes forward, focusing on the museum’s strange, interlocking ramps and its towering glass façade that looked like a shattered iceberg. He tried to blend in, to adopt the leisurely pace of the families strolling around him, but he felt like he was wading through setting concrete. He was a target, illuminated by a spotlight only he and the two watchers could see.

He could feel their eyes on his back, a physical pressure between his shoulder blades. Were they moving? He had to know. He passed a cylindrical, mirrored garbage can and risked a glance. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror, his own reflection distorted and panicked. And behind him, two other warped figures had detached from their positions. The man from the bridge and the man from the trees. They were moving too. They kept their distance, maybe thirty metres back, melting into the thin crowd, but their purpose was unmistakable. They were predators, and they were following his scent.

His mouth was bone dry. He could hear his own ragged breathing, the thump of his worn sneakers on the brick walkway. The sounds of the city seemed to fade into a dull roar, a backdrop to the frantic drumming in his ears. He passed the entrance to the Forks Market, the smell of mini donuts and fresh coffee wafting out, a scent from a different, safer world.

He rounded the final curve of the path and saw it. The passenger drop-off loop in front of the museum’s grand entrance. And there it was. A silver Toyota Camry, parked and idling quietly by the curb, exactly as described. The late afternoon sun glinted off its windshield. Licence plate: CHVX J45.

A wave of desperate relief washed over him, so potent it almost buckled his knees. Pat was a professional, after all. He had this under control. This was the exit ramp. The end of the nightmare.

He quickened his pace, his hand tightening on the bag’s thick canvas strap until his knuckles were white. Just a few more metres. Get in, drop the bag, get out. He could do this. He fixed his eyes on the rear passenger-side door, rehearsing the movements in his head. Pull handle, slide in, drop bag, slide out the other side, walk away, don't look back.

He was three steps away when he saw it. The sun shifted, and for a split second, the tint on the rear window became transparent. He saw a shape inside. Not just the driver, a vague silhouette in the front seat. There was someone in the back.

His brain stuttered. The plan didn’t include anyone else in the car. He slowed, squinting, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It was a child’s car seat. A pink one. And in it, a little girl, no older than four, head slumped to the side in sleep. She was clutching a grubby-looking stuffed rabbit.

The world tilted. Ice-cold adrenaline, sharp and brutal, flooded his system, erasing the relief and replacing it with a terror so profound it stole his breath. This wasn't the drop. This was just a car. A random family car, waiting to pick someone up. A coincidence. A horrifying, statistically impossible coincidence that was about to get him killed.

And then, the real lesson, the final piece of the puzzle, didn't just dawn on him—it slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.

The watchers. The last-minute, panicked change of plans. The impossible car.

He wasn't the courier.

He was the decoy.

He was the loud, obvious piece of bait, the sweaty, nervous kid carrying a bag of clinking junk—washers, nuts, scrap metal, he realized with sickening clarity—designed to draw the full, undivided attention of the two men now closing in on him. The real drop, the one that actually mattered, was happening somewhere else entirely. Maybe it had already happened, a silent, professional exchange while everyone was busy watching the scarecrow.

He was disposable. A hundred-dollar distraction. The thought was so stark, so cold, it cut through his panic and left only a shard of pure, unadulterated rage.

He spun around, the heavy bag swinging with him. The two men were less than twenty metres away. They weren't pretending anymore. Their faces were set and hard, their eyes locked onto him. They were walking faster now, their strides eating up the distance between them. There was no escape.

Kyle didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have a weapon. He only had the screaming, primal instinct of the prey.

He ran.