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 of the canvas messenger bag was all wrong. Kenny had been a bike courier for six months, and he knew the feel of documents, hard drives, lunch orders, and illicit party favours. This was different. It was a dense, irregular weight that shifted when he moved, accompanied by a faint, metallic clinking. The instructions from his handler, a man he knew only as 'Mr. Pat', had been explicit: 'Don't look in the bag. Don't be late. Don't be noticed.' He was failing at the last one already; his sweat-soaked t-shirt was plastered to his back, and he felt like every tourist's camera was pointed directly at him.

The meet was scheduled for 2:00 PM. His watch read 2:14. He was sitting on the designated bench overlooking the Assiniboine River, trying to look casual. He’d bought a bottle of water from a vendor and was taking slow, deliberate sips. The contact was supposed to be a man in a Goldeyes baseball cap reading a newspaper. There were at least five men wearing Goldeyes caps, but none of them were reading. They were eating ice cream, chasing their kids, staring at the river. They were normal.

Kenny's leg bounced, a frantic, uncontrollable rhythm. Every person who walked past seemed to be studying him. A woman pushing a stroller, a man in a business suit talking on his phone, a group of teenagers laughing. Any one of them could be the contact. Or surveillance.

He scanned the area again, more methodically this time. His eyes caught on a man leaning against the railing of the pedestrian bridge. He was big, wearing a dark windbreaker despite the warmth, and he wasn't looking at the view. He was looking in Kenny's direction. Kenny's stomach tightened. He looked away, focusing on the other side of the path. And there was another one. A thin, wiry man pretending to stretch by a large oak tree, but his posture was all wrong. He was coiled, watchful.

This was bad. This was very, very bad. He'd done dozens of drops for Mr. Pat, all of them quick and impersonal. This felt different. This felt like a trap.

### A Change in Destination

His burner phone vibrated, a harsh buzz against his ribs. He fumbled it out of his pocket. The screen read 'UNKNOWN CALLER'. It was Pat.

"Yeah?" Kenny answered, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Change of plans," Pat's voice was a gravelly whisper. "The bench is compromised. You're mobile. Walk towards the Human Rights Museum. East entrance. There's a silver car, a Toyota Camry, waiting at the passenger drop-off. Licence plate ends in J-4-5. The back door will be unlocked. Get in, leave the bag on the seat, get out the other side. Do not speak to the driver."

Compromised. The word confirmed every paranoid fear that had been building in his chest. The men watching him weren't Pat's people. They were someone else's.

"I see two guys," Kenny whispered, turning his head slightly to shield his mouth. "One on the bridge, one by the trees. They're watching me."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Then you better start walking. And look like you belong there. Now."

The line went dead.

Kenny stood up on shaky legs. His body screamed at him to run, to ditch the bag in the river and disappear. But he knew it wasn't that simple. He knew too much. His real name, his address. Running would only delay the inevitable. He slung the heavy bag over his shoulder and started walking.

Every step was an effort of will. He forced himself not to look back at the men. He focused on the museum ahead, its strange, overlapping glass panels looking like broken shards against the blue sky. He tried to blend in, to match the pace of the families around him, but he felt like he was moving in slow motion, a target under a giant magnifying glass.

He could feel their eyes on his back. Were they moving too? He risked a quick glance at his reflection in the glass doors of a building. They were. Both of them. They were keeping their distance, but they were following him, moving with a calm, predatory purpose.

---

He reached the designated drop-off area, a curved driveway in front of the museum's entrance. There it was. A silver Toyota Camry, parked and idling. Licence plate: CHVX J45.

He quickened his pace, his hand tightening on the bag's strap. Just a few more metres. Get in, drop the bag, get out. He could do this.

As he reached for the rear door handle, he saw something through the car's tinted windows. There was a driver, a silhouette in the front seat. And there was someone in the back. Not his contact. A child. A little girl in a car seat, clutching a stuffed animal.

A wave of ice-cold adrenaline washed over him. This wasn't the drop. This was just a random family car, a coincidence of plate numbers. A horrific, impossible coincidence.

And then, the lesson hit him with the force of a physical blow. The watchers. The last-minute change of plans. The impossible car. He wasn't the courier. He was the decoy. He was the loud, obvious piece of bait, carrying a bag of clinking junk, designed to draw the attention of the two men now closing in on him. The real drop, the important one, was happening somewhere else entirely, right now, while everyone was watching the scared kid with the heavy bag.

He was disposable. A fifty-dollar distraction.

He spun around. The two men were less than twenty metres away, no longer pretending, their faces set and hard. They were walking faster now. Kenny didn't have a plan. He only had the instinct of the prey. He ran.