| BOOK FOUR | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Chaplin Jefferson, London Gateway's quay crane foreman, terminal controller and, clandestinely, long-term business associate to The Warren Enterprise, after scant palm-greasing, accepted an additional payment for his ceaseless staunchness in exchange for Russia's inbound vessel schedule. In less than thirty minutes, once the terminal operatives transfer Russia's cranes into transit, Chaplin will send one cryptographic email attachment to Nate, and he only has five minutes to decode route details before the relocating cranes depart.
"I hate the rain." Brad tucked blond strands beneath the black toque hat atop his head. "It ruins my hair."
Yes, cumulonimbus clouds and sporadic showers bide in the miserable skies. Inconveniently bad weather conditions will not suspend the mission, though. I want those diamonds hidden beneath the floors of Nate's carefully selected abandoned building tonight (an old, unoccupied care home in Essex). If, for any reason, the metropolitan police department suspects our involvement, and they should so happen to brandish a search warrant, they will not uncover pillaged goods from any Warren establishment. In six months, I will return to Essex for the stolen goods and strike a deal with Gregory Million, the syndicate's personal gemmologist, goldsmith, engraver and diamond settler from Richmond who has the keys to my underground jewellery, diamond and gold volt. In the volt, he will store the perfect paragons until further notice. I may never use them, or I may request personalised items and customised designs in the near future. Even if the stolen goods render nugatory, Alexa has permission to demand whatever her heart desires. If she wants handcrafted necklaces, rings or bracelets, Gregory will effectuate. "If for any reason certain stones are valueless or purposeless, distribute packages to errand bitches," I instructed, unpackaging black balaclavas. "They can flog on my behalf and retain a percentage of sales."
"Eighteen containers leave Gateway." Nate read the email on his phone while simultaneously handing out loaded firearms to the men. My most trusted, Brad and Josh, deliver extra cartridges. "Chuck the Colts inside your vehicles and use the Glock 22's. These pistols hold more rounds. For tonight's assignment, you cannot afford to dry-fire. Transit vans disperse in three separate directions. I suggest that Brad lead team one." He gestured to the group of five lads and then to the group of eight. "Josh and I will journey with team two. Are you happy to travel with Vincent?" he asked, and I gave a sharp nod. "Are you happy to lead team three?" I nodded again. "Okay. Once we receive updates from Chaplin, we can hit the road. Three Ford transit vans and drivers are waiting in the field behind the store. Leave the Bentleys in this car park overnight."
I stuffed a switchblade into the pocket of my jogging bottoms.
"I paid the store owner three grand to switch perimeter surveillance off for twenty-four hours." Nate placed empty packages inside the boot of his car. "Keep your phone handy," he said to me, slapping a brand-new Glock on my upturned palm. "Precaution."
I secured it to my ankle strap. "Why the sullen face?"
Nate's eyes softened. "Just don't get hurt on us." His phone bleeped. He checked the message and respired a long, sedative breath. "It's in motion." Swapping his T-shirt for a black hoodie, he loaded his laptop, wired the phone to his computer and began to decode Jefferson's email. "Get moving, guys."
