Chapter 22
RANSOME
“That is a lot of fucking powder.”
I sound like an idiot. But I’m staring at the Andes right now.
My dad stands with his arms crossed over his chest, a grin on his round face, pride in his half-moon eyes.
Outside, the building looks abandoned, an old industrial warehouse worn and barred off.
Inside, it’s immaculate. Fresh concrete flooring with three tanker trucks with the name Apex across the side.
Their tires have never seen the outside world. Yet.
Soon they’ll be headed all the way to the border of El Paso, the gateway of Juarez where they’ll pick up a shipment of crude oil to fill the tanks, and a shipment of something else beneath those tanks.
They’ll head back to Sante Fe and that’s where it all becomes our property. Our liability. Our necks.
“You’re sure about this?” I ask.
“Of course I am sure. Son, part of being a pakhan is taking chances when the opportunity presents itself.”
“You mean risks.” I sweep my hand across the smooth metal of the body of the tank of the truck.
“If that’s the way you choose to see it, yes.”
“I’m saying the same thing as you are,” I state, turning to look at him.
My dad shoves his hands in the pockets of his black slacks and looks down with a smile.
“No. There’s a difference. Chances are what you take when you see potential.
Success. Gain. Power. And you reach out to seize it.
But risk… risk is what you call it when you have no faith in your ability to achieve the goal.
When you weigh the cons more than you do the pros. ”
I lower the gate on the tail of the truck, revealing the hidden cavity. “What I’m weighing is the jail time. The greed. We have a smooth flow right now. This? This is reckless. You think none of our trucks will go through checkpoints? None of them will be weighed?”
“We have alternate routes. Routes with people who have shown interest in keeping their mouths shut as we pass the checkpoints.”
My eyes widen at that. “We’re selling along the way?”
“Only enough to make negotiations. Blind eyes made by deep breaths.”
“But the scales don’t lie. Unless those are rigged too.”
“They’ll tell the truth. And the truth is that our tanks will never be more than half full. A slight mismark on the paperwork that is easily bought, if you know what I mean.”
I nod, my lips between my teeth. Then I shut the gate and lace my hands behind my head.
“Ransome… Tristan is never going to stop.”
“Never going to stop what?” I ask, though I know full well.
“Breaking the rules. Crossing the lines. Hurting people we care about. Taking things from us. People from us.”
The pang in my chest pisses me off.
He’s talking about Nik and it’s a direct hit to the nerve.
I don’t talk about my younger brother to many people.
My dad and I definitely don’t talk about him.
Not about his accident. Not about how he was supposed to be the pakhan even though he was younger than me.
And definitely not about how we would be stupid to believe the accident was an accident.
“This job will take the Chadovichs off the map, son. They’ll have nothing.”
I suck the inside of my cheek. “So you want to take their territory?”
“We won’t have to take it. They’ll lose it by default if we are running an operation this size. I want you to think about that.”
Of course I am thinking about it. I am also thinking about how having Tristan Chadovich out of my hair has been a goal of mine since we were young.
He’s always been a snake and that’s saying a lot in this world.
Most of our morals point just left of due North.
But Tristan… Tristan has a history of being loyal to no one, blood included.
“Also, son, I want you to take a look at this.”
I follow my dad over to a back room where the product—as he calls it—is being packaged by workers who better resemble robots than people. They’re silent, their heads low and their eyes lower.
“You smell that?” he asks.
I smell nothing. The room is loaded to the brim with fresh snow and yet it is odorless. That’s a sign of good stuff.
“Take a look,” he says, showing me a sample under the light. It’s bright, fine, and almost luminescent.
“People can cut that shit and create the same effect. Plenty of agents will produce the same appearance.”
“Which is why it’s tested.”
“Colormetric purity?” I ask.
“Tested.”
“Reagent?”
“Tested.”
Goddamn.
If he’s right, and he probably is, this is the purest I’ve seen in a very long time.
“It’s worth triple what the Chadovichs are pushing.”
Triple. Jesus fuck.
“And the mules?” I ask.
“Vetted. These aren’t street dealers. We’re working with Pablo Alvarez.”
I can feel the color leaving my face at that. He’s the kingpin in the drug world. A bolt of power surges through my veins. At the same time, I know the risk. Whether my dad favors the word or not.
“This is deep,” I state as we walk back into the main room where the trucks are.
“Deep equals rich, son. And we are rich. But this is private island rich.”
“You looking to build an El Dorado replica?”
My dad offers half a smile, which is appropriate because it was only half a joke.
“I recommend you gear up, son.” My dad pats my shoulder and walks out.
I stay until I know he is gone. Then I walk over to the room where the workers are and snag a brick. It’s one kilo of finely packed cocaine. I stare at it, let my eyes sweep the room and then back at my hand.
The move I am about to make has risks of its own. And yes, that’s the right word for it. Because it involves another chess piece. One that moves around the board at its own free will—making moves, taking chances, breaking rules.
And maybe… upping my odds.
I head out the back door and hit the button to open the trunk. Amara looks up at me, laying awkwardly in her black pencil skirt and her sleeveless, ruffled, button up blouse. She looks surprised.
“You came back,” she says. But not in a sexy I knew you’d never leave me sort of way. More like she’s surprised. Which is irritating.
“Get out of the trunk,” I tell her, and all the snark drains from her face.
I expect her to lose her shit. To fire off about how I left her, kidnapped her, held her hostage. But Amara is quiet. Calm. Alert.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I say.
“I was going to say the same.”
And there’s the lip.
“Get in the car,” I tell her, and she reaches for the back seat handle. “No. The front seat.”
Amara looks at me. I look at her.
She rounds the car and gets inside.
After a beat, I talk. “You’re a smart girl, Amara. But I need to know if I can trust you to do something for me.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, with no question in her voice. And then, “What can I do for you, Mr. Rozanov?”
Another beat.
“I need to know if you can be quiet,” I say, my voice low and stern.
“How quiet?” she asks.
I reach in my jacket and pull out the brick, setting it on her lap.
Amara gasps, holding up her hands away from it. Like she doesn’t know what to do with it. Like she doesn’t want to touch it.
“Is this—”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a lot of—”
“Yeah. And there’s more where it came from.”
Amara’s pretty little mouth is popped open and her eyes flutter over to mine. “How… much… more?”