RUSLAN
“You’re telling me that it’s all gone?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
I wait for the supplier to elaborate, but he sounds like he’s concentrating on not shitting his pants. I wish we were having this conversation face to face. Shitting his pants would be the least of his f*****g concerns.
“That container of B47 substrate was marked for me. The purchase order was sent. You accepted my motherfucking money.”
“I-I understand, Mr. Oryolov, b-but I have no control over—”
“Who stole it from me?” “Excuse me, sir?”
“Two tons of an extensively manufactured industrial chemical doesn’t just disappear into thin air. Someone purchased that container and I want to know who.” I’m pacing across my office so chaotically that Kirill has to lunge out of my way.
“I, um… That information is classified, sir.”
“W
