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“What’d they say?” I ask Minion as I arrive back at his side.
He grunts low in the back of his throat. “Dutiful little foot soldier went inside to find his fuckin’ sugar daddy.”
“Volkov’s here?” I lift my eyebrows.
The head of the laundering business lives interstate. He’s visited the plant maybe half a dozen times in the past decade, usually content with leaving his assigned managers in place running the day-to-day bullshit.
“Apparently so.” Minion sighs, huge chest rising and drawing attention to that polished gun he covets so much. “After the shit that’s gone down around here of late, I don’t like the possible reasonswhyhe’d decide to interrupt what should be an easy exchange.”
“Neither.”
“What’s the fuckin’ deal?” Kane asks, joining the party. He glowers at the square-jawed kid on the far side of the gate. Fucking boy is barely a man.
“Get Jamie to move the truck back,” Minion tells Tyke’s boy. “I want her backed beyond that hedgerow, ready to floor it if need be.”
“Got a gut feelin’ things won’t go too well?” Kane asks, voice low, back to the Russian property.
“Got a feelin’ this could involve a bit of not-so-gentle persuasion.”
As though on cue, the warehouse doors open. Two foot soldiers with rifles gripped across their chests exit first before the man of the fucking hour emerges. Martin Volkov isn’t the tallest fucker around, but what he lacks in stature, he makes up for in sheer menace. Eyes as black as night, hidden behind a strong brow, his fucking jaw one a boxer would be proud of. The man looks as though he could lay a man out with one careful flick of his fucking head. The scar slashed across the left side of his face makes it seem as though he has. Blackout ink on his right hand only adds to the menace; the only patch of clear skin left is a symbol on the back of his palm. Still yet to figure out what it means, but I’ve seen men back up a step when they recognize the shape.
Kane backs away, turning for the truck as instructed, while Minion and I stand shoulder-to-shoulder, arms folded, waiting on our host.
“This shit goes south, I need you to get my girl the fuck outta here,” Minion mutters out the side of his mouth. “You promise me that?”
“Don’t even need to ask.” I drop my hand to the handgun strapped to my side and flick the safety off.
“Gentlemen,” Volkov drawls with the lazy intonations of his thick accent. “Pardon my interruption, but I think this is a good opportunity for us to talk when I am here. Don’t you think?”
“Would‘ve appreciated a little heads up,” I state with a bop of my eyebrows. “Always polite to give the other party time to prepare.”
“Only liars need time to prepare,” Martin exclaims, hands gesturing wide before him. “You’re not a liar, are you?”
“Insulted you gotta ask me that.” I run my gaze down his practical attire: black, long-sleeve Tee and dark jeans. The boots appear steel-capped, the belt slung through the denim loops of his pants equipped with a pocket knife. “What you in town for?”
“Housekeeping.” He rubs at an invisible spot on his hand. “Open the gates and let our guests in, Luka.”
The blond soldier to Martin’s right takes a step forward, reaching for the lock without breaking eye contact.
I stare the fucker down as he releases the padlock, chain dragging through the loops with a loud clatter before he draws the gate back enough for us to slip through.
Single file.
The subtle show of control over our actions isn’t lost on me. Armed to the teeth, these fuckers are all about minimizing risk. We’d already been checked over half a mile before reaching the gate at their makeshift gatehouse: a pickup parked on the side of the road, portable bollards placed across the gravel accessway.
They know what weapons we carry and how many. They know where they’re holstered and who’s likely to use them first, which is why Minion is asked to holster his gun before we take another step.
Our enforcer does as instructed, lifting his eyebrows as he pointedly stares at the rifles still held at the ready.
Martin gives a single nod, and Luka and his off-sider slip their weaponry to their back.
We’ve all got handguns at the ready, though. A bunch of outlaws one twitch away from a proper shootout, old west style.
It’s that thrill that gets us all out of bed in the morning, no matter what side we’re on.
“I heard a story about our mutual friend,” Martin brokers, falling into step beside Minion as we walk toward the warehouse. His body language says,“Hey. We’re friends. You can trust me.”The snipers on the roof say otherwise. “Is it true? Terry has himself in hot water?”
“Depends who you ask,” Minion answers.
