Page 18 of Donovan Blake: Adrenalin

CHAPTER TWELVE

Arriving at the pancake house just off the freeway, Donovan rolled into the parking lot and studied the cars. Boris’s black Cadillac limousine was parked near the back entrance with two burly men standing alongside. They were ridiculously conspicuous, but Donovan knew it was purposeful. Boris was sending a warning to any enemies who might be lurking nearby.

Donovan was driving a truck. Like his SUV it was a beast, but with additional modifications it could cover just about any terrain. If necessary he could drive up the wooded hills behind the restaurant and leave any pursuers behind, sprayed with dust and dirt.

Parking closest to where he could make his escape if needed, he picked up the box now nestled in a strong, padded, nylon bag, and strode through the parking lot. As he neared the entrance he spotted the Highway Patrol car. The cops were at the pancake house every day at the same time. It was one of the main reasons Boris chose the casual restaurant for their meetings. It was unlikely they knew he was a Russian billionaire mobster, and if any of Boris’s enemies caused any trouble the cops would be obliged to step in.

Walking inside Donovan spotted them sitting at the counter, and at the rear of the large, casual dining room in a corner booth, Boris was waiting with three of his men.

“Hello, Boris,” Donovan said as he approached, extending his hand.

“Glad you made it here safely,” Boris exclaimed, reaching out to shake it. “You got lucky. Those bruises on your face should clear up in no time, but we must deal with Franco.”

“We?” Donovan repeated. “I’m just a personal shopper. I only agreed to meet with him as a favor. After what happened there won’t be a second time.”

“We’ll talk about this later. Let me see the item.”

As Boris slid sideways, Donovan sat next to him, placed the bag between them and opened it.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Boris grunted as Donovan lifted the lid off the box and pushed aside the packaging. “Ah, yes. My man is waiting in the car.”

This was their third deal. Though it was always nerve-racking to watch Boris walk away with a valuable piece, it was preferable to sitting with him in the back of the ominous Cadillac.

“Are you sure you won’t join me?” Boris asked. “You should meet my expert. He might be useful one day.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. The fewer people who know my face the better.”

“True, I suppose. I won’t be long,” Boris declared as he placed the lid back on the box. “I’ve ordered your pancakes.”

With his pulse ticking up, Donovan watched him pick up the bag and move out of the booth. While one of his men followed from the restaurant, the other stayed at the table, but didn’t speak. Moments later a waitress arrived with two large pancakes smothered in fresh blueberries.

“Coffee?” she asked as she sat the plate in front of Donovan.

“Yes, please.”

Though he had no appetite he didn’t want to offend Boris. A great deal of intel had been gathered about the ruthless gangster, and Donovan knew the man had certain sensitivities. Devouring the pancakes and washing them down with the coffee, he nodded approvingly, knowing the beefy thug sitting across from him would report back to his boss. When Boris returned empty-handed, relief rippled through Donovan’s entire body.

“You enjoyed your pancakes?” Boris asked as he sat down.

“I did, very much. And apparently you were happy with what your friend had to say.”

“I am,” Boris said with a jerk of his head. “Check the status of the transfer.”

Lifting his phone from his pocket, Donovan opened the bank account set up for the deal. The funds had been transferred.

“As always, half now and half when it’s been thoroughly examined with my buyer, but I must ask,” Boris said solemnly, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “This item…how did you come across it?”

“Now, Boris, you know I can’t reveal my sources. I’m sure there are others you know who can lay their hands on certain things no-one else can, but they’d never tell you how or where.”

“Not like this. Speaking of other people, I received another request this morning. But this piece may prove more difficult to retrieve, perhaps even impossible. I’m texting you the photograph. It’s a necklace, and is in a private collection. My friend saw it recently and is willing to pay—in his words—whatever it takes.”

Lifting his phone again and gazing at the photograph, Donovan caught his breath.

“Alexandrite…” he muttered. “This must be priceless.”

“Alexandrite, sapphires and emeralds, with round brilliant diamonds for company,” Boris whispered. “Completely unique. It’s called, The Alexandrite Empress.”

“Exquisite. Do you know its value?”

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