One of the men starts talking. He’s got a thick accent I can’t place. Eastern European, maybe. Based off Lukas’s phone call yesterday, I’d assume Russian? I don’t know for sure, though. Nor do I know what he’s talking about. He’s rattling off numbers and names and locations that mean nothing to me.
“—shipment cleared customs Tuesday. No issues. The Bratsk route is holding.”
Lukas nods. “And the terminal?”
“Operational. Rymbayev’s crew finished ahead of schedule.”
Another man jumps in. This one is younger, with a wicked scar running down his left cheek. “The situation in Red Hook is getting a bit testy, sir. We need to discuss—”
Lukas holds up a hand. “In a moment.”
That’s all it takes. The scarred man shuts his mouth and doesn’t open it again.
Lukas’s gaze cuts to me. “Ms. Everett.
