Page 110 of Corrupting Ivy

He was here.

And you only get lucky so many times.

“You put Jason on herand didn’t tell her?” Jake asked, laughing.

“It was last minute.”

We strolled into a little facility that had been a meat processing plant for a mom-and-pop business until the new factory arrived, driving them into bankruptcy. Now it sat abandoned, waiting for us to use it, with no one giving it a second thought.

Alek and our men, Diego, Dante, Diaz, and Sam, not to be mistaken for my soon to be fired chef, walked with us putting our gear to the side.

“Dante, I want you tucked up high, like always.” He was my go-to sharpshooter and came to our rescue on a number of occasions. Especially when a firefight broke out with a rival biker gang, sparked by Alek’s old-man. “Diaz, you’re with me. Team Alpha and Bravo will be outside, monitoring things. Sam and Diego go with them. Is that clear?” They nodded and took their positions while Diaz followed me close behind.

“What did you tell her when you left?” Jake asked.

“The truth. I have a business meeting.”

“That’s not much of a stretch,” Jake said.

“Jake, get to the room in the back over there and set up.” I pointed to an office surrounded by glass in the corner, partially covered by stacked pallets. It was the room the floorman would sit in so he could watch the workers but also do his work. “And make sure your earpiece is working.”

I popped the plastic table into position, then flipped it onto its feet. Alek planted a small bagged sample of cocaine on the table along with an envelope with pictures of the product sitting in the storage facility, waiting for them to pick it up with the key we’d give them.

“Two black Escalades inbound,” Diego said in my earpiece.

“They’re here. Jake, are you ready to go?”

“All set.”

“Alek?”

“Ready.”

“Open the doors, Sam.”

The receiving doors opened, and the two SUVs drove inside, then stopped about fifty feet away. Two big men with shaved heads and Russian prison tattoos stepped out of the driver and passenger side of the first vehicle. The driver stood by the front, his hands folded by his crotch, giving me a view of the faded ink on his hands, while the other opened the back door.

Sacha Primack stepped out and buttoned his solid black suit jacket. He was just as his picture looked.

A tall man, broad shoulders, faded blond haircut with a scar through his brow. Blurred black tattoos across his knuckles from when he served five years in the Russian prison camps before he turned eighteen. He was a hardened criminal before the age of ten—our history much the same.

“Mr. Jackson,” he said as he walked towards the table. “Glad we finally met.” His accent was notable, but not too difficult to understand, which meant no communication issues.

I stepped back, monitoring the men who got out on the other side of Sacha’s vehicle while only the front passenger stepped from the vehicle behind it.

I leaned into Diaz. “Step on the other side of those vehicles and watch them.” He nodded and walked towards the wall, giving him a better view.

“It’s pure Columbian. Here’s the sample.” Alek pushed the small baggy forward.

Sacha picked it up, held it up to the light, then snapped his fingers and put it back on the table. I stepped forward as the man from the rear vehicle opened the back passenger door and reached inside. A woman squealed as he yanked her out by her upper arm and shoved her towards the table.

She was young, maybe twenty or twenty-one, thin with stringy bleach blonde hair and a pierced lip. Her clothes were threadbare, allowing you to see her pink nipples through her white shirt, her shorts full of holes. She dragged her bare toes along the cement floor as he dragged her towards us. She buckled and fell at Sacha’s feet.

I rolled my shoulders as I watched him glance down at her while adjusting his cufflinks. She rose on shaky legs, fear widening her dull eyes as he pushed the baggy towards her.

“Otvedat'. Try it.”

She looked from him to the baggy, then shook the contents onto the small flat plate provided and used the dull razor blade to make a fat line. She glanced around before staring at Sacha as if asking for permission. He nodded. She bent over, pinched one side of her nose and, using the cut straw, inhaled the line of cocaine with one long snort.

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