After only a few seconds, I know two things for certain:
One—it’s Bratva related. That much is obvious, because the messages are a blend of English and Russian.
And two—it’s drug related. Words likeshipment, borders, pick-up, drop-offanddealgive that away.
So Ransome Rozanov, CEO of Apex Oil and Gas, my boss for the last few months, my obsession for the same amount of time, is a big-time Bratva man.
And he’s a drug dealer.
I’m not sure just how to wrap my brain around this. On one hand, it’s terrifying. This isn’t just a street exchange of some weed. If I had to guess, whatever he is involved with, whatever he is apparently running, isn’t recreational and green.
It’s coming from Mexico.
It’s white.
And it’s probably in that building we are parked in front of.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Then, suddenly, the car beeps twice, signaling the unlock. Not even a second later, I hear footsteps.
“Fuck!” I let out again, struggling to hide the phone.
I manage to tuck it away just as the trunk pops open. And there I am, laying in the fetal position in the back of his car, staring up at him while he glares down at me through eyes that are darker than the night sky itself.
“Get up,” he punches out. “You’re coming with me.”
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 apakhanis 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.”
