Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Andrey is at his polar best. He accepts the paperwork from the agent and flips through it contemptuously.
"These haven't been signed by a judge, which you knew.
Performative paperwork is embarrassing when you're a federal agent, don't you think?
" He's ignoring Agent Lombard, who is no longer smug, he's addressing the media.
Tall, handsome and magnetic, he's a far more interesting target to cover.
"If you want to talk performative," I step next to him, adjusting my cuffs.
"I think this raid certainly tops the list. These federal agents just raided the warehouse where we store the medical supplies we sent to ten different children's aid organizations around the globe.
" I hold up a box. "This is what they're taking out of our warehouse.
" Opening it, I pull the top off and take out a bottle. "Cold and flu medication."
Well, this box was. The cases containing the illegal pharmaceuticals are stored in locked iron cases inside cardboard boxes that look identical to this one.
When we first arrived, the foreman who oversees warehouse forty-two stepped behind our car and out of sight.
"They are not going to find me soon enough to arrest me," he whispered.
"They haven't touched the cargo. Detectives Connor and Michaels from the NYPD are already pushing the agents out of that part of the warehouse. "
"What have they confiscated?" I murmured.
"Just these," he said, slipping me a box of the regular meds before slipping away again.
"It's a shame," I say with a look of noble disappointment, "that these federal agents will hold these much-needed medications as evidence while the children who need them will be denied." This part is true, the basic medications do go to our philanthropic branch's donations.
Federal Agent Lombard's face is turning red. "We are here-" he stabs at dramatic finger at Andrey and me, "because of the tidal wave of drugs you send through our city streets, and-"
The pretty blonde reporter from The Daily Skim raises her hand. "I'd like to hear more about your charity outreach." She winks at me. She picked the right brother. Andrey would have responded with a look of revulsion.
"Thank you, Amanda, isn't it?" I smile pleasantly.
Pleasantly, not flirtatiously. I'm a married man.
She nods. "Morozov Global did a great deal of research last year, trying to determine the trajectory of our philanthropic branch's financial goals.
We found that the lack of items as simple as basic medications dramatically increased the mortality rate of… "
Federal Agent Lombard's face gets redder.
The ATF agents ripping through the warehouse slow down.
I recite enough mind-numbing statistics to bore the crime reporters and add enough charm to keep the gossip sites fascinated.
Within an hour, the agents leave the warehouse after phone calls are made.
A senior ATF agent "relieves" that smug fuck Lombard of his duties and the parking lot empties of police cars and media vans.
Dmitri calls me. "How are you doing there?"
"Their raid was just closed down," I say, pacing the stacks of broken boxes. "They never reached any important cargo. What's happening with warehouse thirty-seven?"
"Roman got to the head driver of the convoy in time. Ten trucks. ATF must have known they were scheduled to arrive tonight." Dmitri's speech is short and clipped. He's fucking enraged.
"Someone turned on us," I say, looking at the mess that our new crew of people is trying to clear up. "How much is this going to cost to clean up with our friends on the force?"
"We have three people in the ATF," Dmitri says. "Costly as fuck, but between their removal of evidence and the malevolent influence of our legal counsel-" I smother a laugh, watching Andrey verbally castrating the new ATF agent in charge. "It won't be the disaster we anticipated."
"Good," I say, nodding to the night foreman directing workers. "I'll stay here and make sure there's no new flareups. Sometimes, the bottom feeders slide in after a bust and try to scoop up the leftovers."
Dmitri's tone changes from grim to a bit amused. "Have you called your wife to let her know you'll be here all night?"
"No," I frown. "Why, have you?"
"Fuck yes," he says fervently. "Don't be the durak, the fool who shows up at lunchtime to find your wife's been sitting on the couch all night and she's ready to tear you a new asshole. And Caroline looks like one of those."
"I don't think she's expecting a call, Pakhan," I say. "Our marriage isn't like that."
"Keep telling yourself that, Sovietnik." I can hear Dmitri laughing as he ends the call.
Asshole.
I look at my phone screen for a moment and then push her number. She picks up immediately. "Do I need to raise bail money?"
"No, I'm good. How's the coverage?"
"It was like one of those commercials where Sarah McLachlan is singing and telling you to adopt a homeless, special-needs pet," she chuckles.
"There was one serious news break that ended fairly abruptly.
I suspect their editor told them to cut the feed.
Everyone else was talking about your philanthropic outreach with cold and flu medication.
Cold and flu medication? That was really the best you could come up with? "
The warehouse is still ripped to pieces. I have twenty calls to make, but I'm grinning. "I'll have you know those donations are legitimate."
"Get out! Do you really donate to children's aid groups?" She sounds so shocked. "I thought it was all hookers and blow with you people."
"No, you didn't." I should not feel this good. This night is still fucked.
"Okay, but I didn't know about the charities. That's lovely. And that agent got so clowned!" she says gleefully. There is a low murmur behind her. "Your mother wants to know if you need anything."
"She's still there?"
"Yeah, she and Dasha wanted to hang out here," she says. "I've introduced your sister to the simple joys of a Cheetos and microwaved popcorn mix and her world will never be the same."
I think about my twenty-thousand-dollar Minotti sofas, covered in Cheeto dust. Nuclear radiation will fade long before the glowing orange remains of my wife's favorite food.
"That sounds good," I say. "I likely won't be back before noon."
"Understood," she says, in a tone more gentle than I've heard from her. "Try not to shoot anyone with an A, a T, or an F on their shirt."
"You think that's amusing?" I ask, trying not to grin.
"Look, it's like two a.m., I am hilarious right now. Lower your standards," she says primly.
I don't want to get back to work. I'd like to talk to my wife and stretch out this rare moment of accord. But there is a foreman, my brother, and three people from the Morozov corporate side waiting to talk to me. "I'm sure that around five or six, I'll be sleep deprived to find you funny."
"You will."
"Goodnight, wife."
There's a short silence as she absorbs the word. It's loaded, I know. "Goodnight, husband," she says.