J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [697]
“Get your weapons out,” he said.
In the passenger seat, Mr. D palmed his forty, and in the back, the pair of slayers cocked the shotguns they’d been given before Lash had taken them all out of town.
A hundred yards later, Lash hit the brakes and ran his gloved hand around the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The good thing about a big-ass black Mercedes was that when you got out of it you looked like a businessman, not a flashy drug thug. Plus you could fit your guard in the backseat.
“Let’s do this.”
In a synchronized punch, they popped the latches on their doors and got out, facing off across the snowy earth at another big-ass Mercedes.
Maroon AMG. Nice.
And Lash wasn’t the only one to bring guns-and-ammo accessories to the meeting. As all the AMG’s doors opened, three guys with forties and one who appeared to be unarmed got out.
Whereas the sedans suggested civility, or at least the appearance of it, all the men in them represented the violent side of the drug trade—which had fuck-all to do with calculators and offshore accounts and money laundering.
Lash approached the man who didn’t have a weapon with both his hands out of the pockets of his Joseph Abboud coat. As he came forward, he searched the mind of the South American importer, who, at least according to the drug dealer they had tortured for fun and profit, had sold bulk product to Rehvenge.
“You wanted to meet with me?” the guy said with an accent.
Lash put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and smiled. “You are not Ricardo Benloise.” He glanced to the other Mercedes. “And I do not appreciate you and your boss fucking around with me. You tell that motherfucker to get out of the car now, or I’m walking—which means that he will not be doing business with the guy who cleared the decks in Caldwell and who will be servicing the market the Reverend used to handle.”
The human seemed nonplussed for a moment; then he glanced back at the three comrades who were standing behind him. After a moment, his eyes finally shifted to the maroon Mercedes and he subtly shook his head.
There was a pause and then the passenger-side door opened and a smaller, older man got out. He was impeccably dressed, his black coat fitting his slight shoulders perfectly, his glossy loafers leaving a shuffling path in the snow.
He came forward with total calmness, as if he were a thousand percent sure that his men could handle whatever happened.
“You will understand my caution,” Benloise said with an accent that seemed part French and part Latin American. “It is a good time to be of care.”
Lash removed his hand from his jacket, leaving his gun where it was. “You got nothing to worry about.”
“You sound very sure.”
“As I’m the one who’s been knocking off the competition, I am very sure.”
The old man’s eyes traveled up and down Lash, taking stock, and Lash knew he was going to see nothing but strength.
Figuring there was no time to waste, Lash laid it all out. “I want to move what the Reverend did in terms of volume, and I want to do it now. I have plenty of men and the territory is mine. What I need is a good, steady professional supplier of powder, and that’s why I wanted to meet with you. It’s simple, really. I’m stepping into the Reverend’s shoes, and as you were the one he worked with, I want to do business with you.”
The old man smiled. “Nothing is simple. But then, you are young and will discover that for yourself if you live long enough.”
“I’m going to be around for plenty of time. Trust me.”
“I do not trust anyone, even my family. And I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about. I am an importer of fine Colombian art, and I have no idea how you got my name or why you connected it to anything of an illegal nature.” The old man bowed slightly. “I bid you good evening and suggest that you find legitimate pursuits