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Kirill doesn’t seem to like that answer. “I’ve had eyes on Adrik since the night he crashed Alcazar. Doesn’t look like he’s up to too much of anything apart from whoring his way around New York.”
The streets are always unnaturally quiet whenever we break out from the chaotic snarl of Midtown traffic. It’s a long drive to the manufacturing plant, but my negotiating tactics have always been more effective in person.
“Or that’s what he wants us to believe,” I growl. “First, he shows up at my club uninvited. Then there’s a missing container of B47 substrate. Now, we might lose the manufacturing plant to someone else. All of it feels too on the nose to be a coincidence.”
The manufacturing plant rises up on the horizon a quarter-mile before we reach it. It’s a monstrously large facility, concentric rings of glazed white buildings and corrugated iron operating with ruthless efficiency. Kirill drives past the generator turbine. We can hear the massive engine cranking long after we’ve passed it.
Rolf Sunderland is standing outside the entrance of the main plant building as we park and get out, just in front of a row of gleaming windows with tinted glass. Two men stand at his back, one in a suit and the other wearing a lab coat.
“Mr. Oryolov, we’re delighted to host you at Sunderland Plant.” He grins broadly and spreads his hands wide. “Would you like a tour? Mr. Hadassy here will gladly show you around. He’s the—”
“Mr. Sunderland, do I strike you as the type of man who has time to waste?”
His mouth snaps shut. “Pardon, sir?”
I stalk closer. He’s no small man, but I still tower over him. The two employees at his back retreat instinctively, abandoning their boss to whatever I might do to him. “My team received a call this morning informing me that the sale might be delayed by a few weeks because you were reopening the bidding process and entertaining other buyers.”
He pales, washing out what little color remained in his already-anemically pale complexion. “I… um, that is… I am a businessman, first and foremost. I must consider other deals, Mr.—”
“And this competing buyer? Did he give you a name?”
Sunderland’s eyes bulge. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be ethical to divulge that kind of information. With all due respect. Sir. Mr. Oryolov.”
I roll my eyes and glance at Kirill, lounging off to one side. He smirks and cracks his neck.
I turn my attention back to Sunderland, who seems to wish I would direct it at anyone else but him. “Lucky for you, I don’t give two fucks about his name—I already know that information anyway. Idogive a fuck about securing this manufacturing plant. But if you turn down the offer I’m about to give you, I can assure you, I will walk away and build my own fucking plant while you struggle to salvage what’s left of yours from the mountain of ashes and rubbles that’ll pile up right where you’re currently standing.”
Sunderland gulps. The suit and the lab tech take another couple of steps back. One bumps into the row of windows and nearly screams.
“Here’s the deal: you agree to sell to me right now and I’ll tack on another twenty percent.”
His eyes widen even more. “Twenty percent?”
“You have exactly ten seconds to make your decision. Starting right—”
“Done!”
I nod curtly and glance at the suit. “I take it you’re the lawyer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Draw up the paperwork. Today’s as good a day as any to sign.”
Sunderland gestures to his lawyer to do as he’s told. Then he turns back to me with a wobbly smile. “Why don’t you join us inside for a drink? To, ah, commemorate your new purchase.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m not in the habit of drinking with men who go back on their word, Mr. Sunderland.”
That wipes the smile clean off his face. “I-I do apologize, but—”
I take a step forward and the words die on his lips. “If it happens again, our next meeting won’t be quite so pleasant.”
I look him right in the eye when I say it. Sunderland only nods, his skin taking on a sickly sallow tint. “I-is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Oryolov?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” I pluck the employee badge from his lapel, drop it on the ground, and grind it into the dust with the heel of my shoe. “You can get the fuck off my property.”
30
RUSLAN
