Page 82 of Kingmakers, Graduation

He flicks the uncovered switch on the wall. For a moment nothing happens, and then with a rumble and a hum, a couple overhead bulbs illuminate. The others remain dark.

“Is that the wiring or the bulbs?” Hakim frowns.

“I dunno. I’ll send Chief to take a look.”

“Or someone who knows what they’re doing …”

“I thought that was supposed to be you?” I grin.

Hakim scoffs. “Not even close. I’ve got a buddy I can call who went to school with me—he’s been building hydroponic systems for basement grow-ops. I’m not the only dropout turning tricks.”

“Sure.” I nod. “Keep it quiet otherwise—we don’t want imitators before we’ve even started.”

“Of course.” Hakim nods.

Sabrina has completed her circuit of the space. She dashes back to us, flushed and bright-eyed.

“Let’s get started already!” she shouts.

It takesanother month to clear out the lab and get it operational. Everyone pitches in cleaning up the space, even Jasper and Vlad. I pay Hakim’s friend a consulting fee to source the necessary equipment. We have to hire a professional to run fresh plumbing and install a new furnace and gas lines, but it’s Vlad’s uncle, so I’m not worried about loose lips. We don’t explicitly tell him what we’re doing, though I’m sure he can guess.

The most difficult part is finding the supplier for our raw materials.

We could buy from Amsterdam like the Slavs, but then our pills would be too expensive, even at the premium Sabrina thinks we can charge. Jasper wants me to approach Krystiyan Kovalenko. He’s got access to the Ukrainian’s drug pipeline that runs from Kiev to Lisbon.

“No fucking way,” I tell him flatly. “I’m not working with the Malina.”

Those motherfuckers already stole three years of my life. I could own Moscow already if I hadn’t been dancing on their puppet strings trying to keep Ivan alive.

“Krystiyan isn’t Malina, technically,” Jasper says. “He’s just related to them. Besides, Marko Moroz is dead.”

“I know,” I say coldly. “I watched Rafe hack him up like a ham. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to buddy up with his second cousin twice removed or whatever the fuck Krystiyan is. Besides, you knew him at school—he’s a fucking snake.”

“What’s your brilliant idea, then?” Jasper says, impatient.

“I don’t have one yet … but I will.”

The solution, when it finally presents itself, is far from ideal. I broker a deal with Lev Zakharov, a broker out of Rostov-on-Don, thirteen hours away on the edge of the Black Sea. Though several of the traditional smuggling routes have been cut off in recent years, his location allows him to bring materials through Romania, Georgia, Turkey, or Bulgaria, and he has connections to the cheapest manufacturers of raw materials in Thailand and China. Though he’s only a small broker, he’s known to be reliable and has no prior commitments in Moscow.

He happily agrees to work with us. But our agreement comes with a hell of a tax.

“He wants a five percent cut,” I tell Jasper and Sabrina. “He’ll give the materials so cheap that we won’t even notice it.”

Now it’s Sabrina who fires up, crying, “We don’t need a partner! Just a supplier.”

“He won’t accept anything else.”

“Find someone else then!”

“There isn’t anyone else!” I snap. “It’s not sugar and flour, they don’t sell it in the baking aisle!”

Sabrina narrows her eyes at me, silenced but not at all satisfied. If she had a tail, it would be twitching behind her. She’s pissed that I’m overriding her, but there really isn’t any other option. None that I’ll accept.

Getting the worst over with, I inform Jasper, “He’s sending his son to Moscow. To protect their interests.”

Jasper’s so angry he’s stiffened up like a corpse, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Zigor Zakharov is a fucking buffoon,” he seethes.

---