Page 247 of The Devil's Thorn
“Peru. Cut twice. It’s clean. Pure enough to move, but not pure enough to kill someone if they sneeze on it.”
“Distributors already lined?”
“Yuri’s guy in Marseilles and another in Budapest. French one’s expecting. Budapest is backup.”
I rubbed my thumb along the edge of my jaw, considering the layout on the table. The ports. The timing. The bribes already in motion.
Everything lined up.
And yet— “What about the customs officer?”
Yuri leaned back with a low chuckle. “Replaced. Bought and paid. Wife just got a promotion, too. Isn’t that sweet?”
I didn’t smile.
“And if it gets flagged?”
“Then it gets buried. We’ve got a fallback truck lined with dry goods and a commercial invoice trail that leads to a bakery in Lyon.” He paused. “We’re not sloppy, Raf. You taught us better.”
He was right. But distraction didn’t excuse weakness. And I knew myself well enough to feel the edge of it tonight.
I poured myself two fingers of scotch—didn’t drink it. Just held it in my hand, staring at the routes again. The red lines. The pivot points.
“They go offload at five,” I said. “Text me the moment it’s confirmed clean. No noise. No surprises.”
Nikolai nodded once, precise. “You want to stop by?” he asked.
I didn’t answer right away. Because I wasn’t sure.
The weight of the glass in my hand felt heavier than it should’ve. I didn’t drink it. Didn’t need to. Sometimes holding the fire was enough.
I looked at the map again—at the way the red routes sliced through old territory, at the night that was already in motion.
I could’ve stayed behind. Watched the whole thing unfold from a screen and a report. But I didn’t want to.
“I’ll go with you,” I said, setting the glass down. Not a request. Just fact.
Nikolai glanced up from where he was leaning over the table, cue stick resting against the edge. He didn’t look surprised.
“We’ll bring the secure car,” he said. “Two behind us, one in front. All black. All clean.”
Yuri lifted his brows slightly but didn’t argue. He just flipped the lighter open again, letting the click echo through the quiet.
“You expecting it to go wrong?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Which is why I’m going.”
He grinned. “Paranoia looks good on you.”
It wasn’t paranoia. It was precision.
You don’t build an empire by trusting too much. You build it by showing up when no one expects you to. By making sure your name isn’t just spoken—butrespected.
I was about to respond when Nikolai’s phone buzzed. He checked it once. Then again. His expression didn’t shift, but I knew that look.
“It’s Cormac,” he said.
Of course it was.
