Now are with someone else.
What stayed concealed, kept out of view,
Has found new eyes and purpose, too.
The asshole is getting more poetic and less coherent with each new message.
Passing the last row of shelves, I reach the open area where some of our cube vans drive inside the warehouse to load up. Just to the side is a limited space where we park the next few vehicles in the queue. Several are waiting there now.
“Where is the driver?” I ask.
“Stall number four.” Nathan nods in the intended direction. “He’s waiting for you, sir.”
My footsteps echo on the concrete as I approach the vehicle Nathan pointed out. Like all the others in my fleet, the sides of the cargo hold and the doors of the cab of this otherwise white vehicle are marked with the navy Ruffo Enterprises logo. The identical outward appearance is purposeful. The identical interiors, too. The upholstery. The dashboard components. All uniform. All of the cube vans look the same. The semis and other vehicle types, also. Even the make of tires is standard. There are no other labels. No unit number. No fleet identifier. The only way to visually distinguish between each truck or van is by the license plates.
This might be a pain in the ass for fleet management purposes. But there’s a method to my madness. In this business—not the global transportation conglomerate, theotherenterprise—keeping a low profile is of the highest importance. The more alike trucks and people look, the better. If none can be identified, they cannot be singled out. If they can’t be singled out, they won’t be stopped. That is why uniformity matters. The whole operation blends into the background noise. Just another convoy, another route, another shift. It becomes the simplest form of protection in plain sight. Not because it is clever, but because it is mindlessly dull. Interchangeable. Unremarkable. Forgettable. And in this line of work, indispensable.
As I approach Stall 4, I’m greeted with agood afternoon, sir, by a man in his thirties, wearing navy cargo pants and a navy T-shirt that also bears the company logo. He’s cleanly shaven, and his hair’s cropped short, just like every other driver in my employ. As with equipment and uniform dress code, all personnel are required to adhere to a synonymous personal appearance.
Hands clasped in front of him, the man nervously mangles a mandatory baseball hat as he watches me get nearer.
“Show me,” I demand without raising my voice. My even tone belies exactly how irritated I’m feeling.
The driver reaches into the back pocket of his pants and takes out a folded piece of paper. “The guy said you’ll know what this is.”
Unfolding the note, I scan the alphanumeric list. Rage ignites in me the instant I realize what the values represent.
“Describe the encounter to me.”
“I pulled into the truck stop on I-55, about thirty miles southwest of Chicago. Next thing I know, some scary-looking dude with an eye patch comes up to me while I’m having a cup of joe. He didn’t introduce himself, just handed me this and said to deliver it to you personally. Said if I didn’t, he’d know.”
“Anything else?”
“He…ah…talked with a bit of an accent and said that thepakhanwould be waiting for your call. Then he left.”
“You are sure he saidpakhan?”
“Yes.”
“You are free to go.” I dismiss the driver with a nod toward the exit. The moment he is out of earshot, I turn to Nathan.
“Direct all priority vehicles to the nearest distribution center and have each unloaded immediately upon arrival. No exceptions,” I instruct. “Then, I want the cargo to be repacked onto the auxiliary transports and sent off via secondary routes. All records for these changes are to be noted only in the local maintenance ledgers, not in the central management system. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I reach for my phone and head toward the exit.
As usual, Brahms answers on the first ring.
“We have a leak,” I growl, staring at the note that contains a list of license plates. “I want to know how a list of my trucks carrying cocaine ended up with Bratva. And I want whoever is responsible for that found.”
Through my marriage to Filippa, I took control of an established yet failing freight distributor that handled arrangements for warehousing as well as shipment of goods by road, rail, ocean, and air. Using my fleet of trucks, I leveraged their already developed cross-border connections and long-term clients across North America to morph the entire enterprise to serve my needs. My drug trafficking needs. Under the guise of a legitimate subsidiary of Ruffo Enterprises, the upgraded fleet of uniquely identical vehicles has been providing ground freight forwarding services across the continent, and has recently expanded into Central and South America, too. We guarantee safe and reliable transportation of all goods in our possession. Especially our “priority” cargo, which is transported in specialized trucks, equipped with false flooring and siding. Secure compartments that, should the crates, appliances, furniture, or whatever freight is being carried be subject to inspection, will remain undetected. With no identifiablemarkings, there is no way to tell apriorityvehicle apart from a regular one. Nothing sets them apart.
Although every truck in the fleet has been altered to carry drugs, only a limited number is utilized to move the product at any given time. The rest are used as part of day-to-day, legitimate business operations. The trucks that are packed with drugs are rotated with every shipment, thus changing their status to “priority” transport. The drivers have no idea if they are carrying anything beyond what is on their cargo manifests. And no one, aside from a handful of employees inside the central logistics department and local boots on the ground at each distribution center, is the wiser. The process is clean. Simple. Surefire.
Until now, this system has run without any hiccups, thanks to the select team of capable, well-compensated, and most importantly, well-informed individuals. People who damn well know what would happen to them should they undermine or betray the responsibilities they have agreed to fulfill. They do their jobs without fail, not out of some personal loyalty to me—I don’t believe such a thing exists. Nor am I stupid enough to think that being paid well inspires fealty. Presented with a sufficient monetary carrot, even a saint might crack. No, the only true currency people value above all else is their own hide. So it is not some sense of sentimentality and loyalty that keeps them honest; it’s the knowledge of the perilous consequences that await them should they ever betray me. Knowledge gained not from nebulous hearsay, but from witnessing firsthand my retribution against a few morons who thought they could outplay me.
“How do you want me to handle this?” Brahms asks as I walk back toward the car. “I can start with a thorough check into everyone with access—system logins, surveillance footage, andsee if there’s a money trail to follow. Maybe someone received a large bank deposit lately.”
