Now that the trial has been put to rest, Rueben believes that life is on an upward trend. It's not long before he understands he is sadly mistaken.
Around every corner lies a new demon lurking with the desire to rip the rug out from under him. He m...
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Blaine glanced at his watch as he used his other hand to tap the clipboard against his leg. He was starting his morning rounds – checking on the shipping containers, as well as making sure all of the required shipments were delivered to their correct areas.
It was nearing ten now, but the day didn't seem to be changing. He reached up and pulled his rain jacket hood further over his baseball cap, trying to shield himself from being drenched by the downpour surrounding him. Realistically, there was no point in him holding the clipboard and writing down the information when it was just getting soaked through, and because he had Maverick on the other side of his wire, typing all of his words into the database.
He continued to tap the board on his upper thigh as he rounded the first row of shipping containers and made his way to the entrance of the land section. The Docks were simply handled; on one side of the place, Franki took care of the boats that imported and exported foreign made items, which included but weren't limited to: drugs, alcohol, guns, and confidential records from other gangs.
On his half, he took care of the trucks and cars that carried the same type of goods. Today, he was expecting a semi to deliver a new type of firearm – they were supposed to work like an automatic, but could be taken apart and held like a handheld, as well as put back together and used like an AK. It was a strange invention, but Emmet wanted them at the warehouse.
Blaine knew that having the Docks in Oregon and the warehouse in Los Angeles was an excellent move as an entrepreneur; he didn't put all of his ducks in a row. Smart and logical – that was his leader.
He tapped twice on the door of the truck; the driver popped it open a second later and slid out.
"Aldi's Golden Turkey?" Blaine questioned.
"Yes sir – I have thirty boxes of skinned turkeys and fifty boxes of feathered ones, just as asked."
"Open the back; let me see."
He followed the driver silently, knowing that he was going to see what he wanted. There was a certain code that happened in underground services like these; most of them wrapping around food. Turkeys were code for the goods they ordered. Skinned was code for guns, and feathered was code for the ammunition that fit them.
Blaine latched a hand on the tailpipe of the truck and hoisted himself inside. He counted the boxes, and unsurprisingly, they were all here. He clicked his wire and told Maverick to send a team over to unload the truck for them.
Ten minutes later, he was slapping the back of the truck, letting the driver know that he was good to go and all was unloaded. He pivoted and started to walk away as the vehicle headed back through the main gates. The best part about this job was that he could be a boss and not lift a single finger.
"Mav, when's the next truck supposed to get here?" he talked to the wire.
Blaine grabbed the edges of his jacket and tugged them over his body tightly, feeling the air change at that moment. Water was still raining down heavily on him, and the wind growing thicker by the minute wasn't helping his warmth level.
