“Sir,” they reply in chorus.
I get out of the vehicle and walk a few steps toward him. “I trust your boss received my last message after your rather botched up attempt to screw me?”
Santoro’s jaw clenches. “Indeed. It’s a mistake we won’t make again.” He signals to the huge truck behind him, which is twice the size of the one before. “As a goodwill gesture, we’ve included double the product for the same price and you’re welcome to send your men to inspect for any bombs before we leave.”
I nod and glance at my men. “Pyotr, make the check.”
He goes to retrieve the inspection mirror and then approaches the truck. There’s a tension in the air you could cut with a knife, but I don’t let it distract me. If Don Pablo is smart, they’ll know what’s best for them. Accept my rule and walk away.
After a painstakingly long but thorough check from Pyotr, he returns. “All is clear.”
“Good. Gleb, bring them the cash.”
Gleb steps forwards with the bag of cash which we counted many times and walks it over to Santoro, who signals for the same two guys to count it.
“Not to offend, but I must ensure it’s all there,” Santoro says.
“No offense taken. Although, it wasn’t us that tried to screw you on the first drop.” I tap my fingers impatiently against my arm, wanting this wrapped up quickly so I can tend to the other matters at hand, primarily the fact my enemy has stolen my wife.
Not to mention, I have a board member of Devereaux Inc. to shake down before the vote in two days.
One man who did the counting nods. “It’s all there.”
“Of course it is,” I say, glaring at Santoro. “I’m not an idiot.”
Santoro waves his hand dismissively. “Perfect. In future, I hope our drops will be quicker and smoother the more we learn to trust one another.”
I smirk at that. “I wouldn’t count on it. I trust no one.”
He laughs. “Fair enough, Volkov. We’ll be in touch.” With that, Santoro and his men get into their SUV with the cash and leave.
“Are we confident it’s not rigged?” I ask Pyotr.
“Fairly. Unless they’ve hidden bombs in the vehicle’s fabric, there are no signs.”
I nod. “Who wants to test that out?”
No one volunteers, unsurprisingly.
I glance at my watch. “Alternatively, you can spend the night shifting the tonnes of cocaine into vans to move it.”
“Fuck it,” Gleb says, shaking his head. “I’ll drive it.”
Pyotr claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
Gleb glares at him. “It should be you. You’re the one who checked it for explosives.”
Pyotr shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a coward.”
Gleb grumbles something in Russian under his breath that I don’t catch and then marches toward the truck, hoisting himself up into the driver’s seat.
I take a few steps back toward the SUV for safety and watch as Gleb turns over the key in the ignition. The truck’s engine starts and nothing happens, but it doesn’t mean a thing, and Gleb knows it from the look on his face.
He puts it into reverse and moves the truck out of the parking bay at the docks, turning around to make toward our warehouse on the other side.
After a good few moments of him moving without incident, we all stop holding our breath.
“Looks like whatever message you sent to Mexico worked,” Budimir says.