Chapter 294: Carpool
"What's wrong with you?" Frank asked, noticing the strange look on Pinkman's face.
"It's about Jenny," Pinkman said—the landlady's daughter.
Because of what had happened earlier, Pinkman and Jenny had gone through a brief cold war. After making up, though, their relationship had grown even closer than before.
During this time, they'd talked about their pasts.
Pinkman had learned more about Jenny's situation. She was an addict too—or rather, she had been. She'd been clean for some time now and still regularly attended recovery meetings, where people shared their experiences and struggles.
"Didn't you say she quit?" Frank asked. "Then what are you so conflicted about?"
"I—I'm just worried about you guys," Pinkman stammered, forcing a strained smile. "I'm afraid you might… have ideas."
"What ideas could we possibly have?" Frank replied. "As long as you don't talk nonsense, you're fine. Didn't you see Walter's little girl? She was so tiny—so adorable. It's been a long time since I felt that kind of awe, watching a new life come into the world."
As he spoke, Frank took off his coat and hung it on the hook.
"It's really a shame I couldn't go," Pinkman said, turning his head away. His expression was still complicated.
---
Time flew by, and before they knew it, it was time to deliver another shipment.
Once again, Frank and Pinkman personally escorted the cargo, heading for Chicago.
"Sorry," the driver said as they were loading the goods into the truck,
"but this time it's not just you. I've got one more person to bring along."
"One more person?" Frank stopped what he was doing and frowned.
"That's not what we agreed on."
Situations like this weren't unusual.
Just like taxis or long-distance rides—drivers often carpooled. If someone flagged them down along the way and the route matched, they'd take them along.
Smuggling worked the same way.
If it was on the way and safety could be guaranteed, they'd usually take the extra passenger. After all, who didn't want to make a little more money?
When illegal immigrants were smuggled across borders, vehicles were often packed as tightly as possible—however many people could be squeezed in, they would be.
But Frank had made his terms clear with the driver beforehand. This was a chartered run. The driver was only supposed to transport their cargo—nothing else. Every extra item meant extra risk.
And bringing a person along was even worse.
People were the most unpredictable variable of all.
"It's fine," the driver said calmly. "An old friend introduced him. There won't be any problems."
"Does he have to be on this run?" Frank asked. "Can't you take him next time?"
"No," the driver replied. "He's in a hurry."
"You're putting me in a difficult position," Frank said flatly.
"I don't have a choice," the driver sighed. "The guy who asked me once saved my life. He's calling in that favor—I can't refuse."
If it were possible, the driver wouldn't want to break an agreement either. In gray-market work like this, reputation and credibility mattered.
"If this really won't work," the driver added, "I won't take your cargo this time. I'll refund you double. Or I can introduce you to a friend of mine—he's just as skilled. I can call him, and he'll be here in a few days."
His stance was clear.
No matter what, he was taking this person along—even if it meant losing Frank's business.
"…Fine," Frank finally said with a resigned sigh. "Bring him."
They'd worked together many times already. Frank trusted the driver's abilities. Switching to someone else at this point would make him even more uneasy.
"I owe you one," the driver said with a grin once Frank relented.
After loading all the cargo, Frank finally saw the man the driver had insisted on bringing.
He was a solidly built man, head lowered as he sat inside the truck's cargo compartment. He looked to be in his forties or fifties. Frank couldn't see his full face—only his profile—but the sharp features made it obvious at a glance:
Russian.
"What's his name?" Frank asked. "Is he going to Chicago too?"
"Don't know his name," the driver replied. "He's headed to New York."
That explained it.
Frank and Pinkman were the ones being picked up along the way.
Once everything was secured, the driver started the truck and left the city behind.
Inside the cargo compartment, the three of them sat in silence. The atmosphere was awkward.
The Russian man ignored Frank and Pinkman completely. He showed no interest in them—or in the cargo they were transporting.
Instead, he quietly fiddled with a mechanical device in his hands, occasionally pulling a screwdriver from his coat, unscrewing parts, dismantling and reassembling pieces. He was taciturn to the extreme.
"What are you going to New York for?" Frank asked, trying to start a conversation.
"…"
The Russian glanced at Frank briefly, then looked away without answering.
With no response, Frank could only chat idly with Pinkman. But with an outsider present, they couldn't talk about anything sensitive. Most of the time, they just scrolled on their phones, filling the silence with meaningless small talk.
Even when Frank and Pinkman spoke, the Russian never looked up—like a mute, absorbed entirely in his mechanical tinkering.
Before they realized it, night fell, and they started eating.
Frank glanced at the Russian's food.
It was hardtack—compressed military biscuits. Not the modern kind, either, but the old, rock-hard type from decades ago. The kind used in World War II and long since discontinued.
The writing on the packaging wasn't English. It was Russian.
The man chewed the biscuits loudly, the sound like stones grinding together, then washed them down with a large gulp of cold water—utterly unfazed by the discomfort.
Compared to that, Frank and Pinkman's food looked luxurious. After several trips, they'd learned to prepare well.
"Want a drink?" Frank asked, holding up a bottle toward the Russian.
Every Russian Frank had ever met loved alcohol—without exception.
He wanted to stay on good terms with this man.
They'd be sharing this cramped cargo space for days. More importantly, Frank wanted to prevent this silent Russian from causing trouble—or jeopardizing the shipment.
Sure enough, when Frank produced the bottle, the Russian finally reacted.
He lifted his head and stared at the alcohol.
After a few seconds, he took the bottle and drank deeply.
Seeing his goodwill accepted, Frank smiled and handed over some food as well.
After eating and drinking, the Russian finally spoke—his first word since they'd met.
"Thanks."
"I'm David," Frank said, giving a false name. "Everyone calls me Old Man. What about you?"
"Ivan," the man replied.
"Ivan… Ivan Vanko."