Renegade (2013) by Mel Odom

the fact that Yaqub had taken the son but not the sire.
    “Yaqub, it is good to see you.” Pavel Borisov was a giant of a man, six and a half feet tall and broad-shouldered. He had been spetsnaz , a member of the USSR’s special forces. That had been before the BerlinWall fell and before Russia embraced capitalism. Since that time, he had gone into business for himself as a munitions broker, funneling Russia’s overstocked arsenal off to terrorists and drug dealers.
    A neatly trimmed mustache and goatee punctuated Borisov’s lean, wolfish face. He wore clothing that let him blend into the city. His breath smelled of vodka and excess. Four armed men sat on the chairs along the back wall. All of them possessed military bearing and were focused on Yaqub and his two compatriots.
    Borisov waved to one of the chairs in the small suite he had commandeered for the meeting. Yaqub sat at the table.
    “I know you don’t drink, but might I offer you some tea? I have a fresh pot.”
    “Thank you, no. I have breakfasted this morning. I would rather get to the business we have.”
    “Of course.” Borisov spread his hands. “You have the opium?”
    “I do.” Yaqub reached under his shirt and took out a small paper-wrapped bundle. He unwrapped the contents and plopped the grayish-black ball onto the scarred table. The lump was almost as big as Yaqub’s fist.
    Borisov pointed at the lump. “May I?”
    Yaqub nodded and dropped his hand into his lap, fingers only inches from the pistol he had hidden there.
    Quietly, Borisov produced a clasp knife, opened it, and sliced off a small piece of the opium. The Russian took a small bottle from his pocket and set it on the table. He opened it, then lifted the eyedropper and let a few drops of the clear liquid fall onto the dark tar. Yaqub knew the liquid was Marquis reagent and was used to test for purity of drugs.
    Within seconds, the opium lump turned a grayish, reddish brown.
    Borisov smiled and looked at Yaqub. “Have you tested this?”
    “No.”
    “It is very pure.”
    “Then it is worth the price we agreed upon.”
    The Russian put the bottle in his pocket and leaned back in his chair. “It depends on how much of this you have.”
    “Several kilos of it.”
    Borisov ran his fingers through his goatee and smiled. “Good, because what I have for you is very expensive. I think you will be pleased.”
    “I have enough to cover the price for the materials we agreed on.”
    “Show me.”
    Yaqub got up slowly from the table and walked to the window to his left, overlooking an alley two stories below. Four of Yaqub’s men guarded a donkey-drawn cart. “Join me.”
    Borisov approached and peered out, cautiously pulling the curtain to one side. The Russian was not a trustful man and knew that he presented himself as a target. His men knew it too, and they shifted so they would be ready to bring their weapons to bear if need be.
    Yaqub motioned with his hand and two of his men below pulled back the canvas tarp to reveal the small wooden boxes the opium had been packed in.
    Licking his lips, Borisov nodded toward the cart. “All of the boxes contain opium?”
    “Yes.”
    “Of the same grade?”
    “It was all obtained in the same place. You would know about such things more than I would.”
    “All right.” Borisov grinned. “You’re very trusting these days, Yaqub. I can remember a time when you would have been much more cagey about trading goods.”
    Yaqub tapped the windowpane. “Not as trusting as you think, I am afraid.”
    Across the street, one of Yaqub’s fighters briefly stepped into view. The young man held an RPG-7 on his shoulder and was locked onto the window where Yaqub stood.
    Borisov stopped grinning and stepped back from the window. Both of them knew the RPG’s missile could punch through the window and kill everyone inside.
    “I trust, but only so far.” Yaqub turned to the Russian. “Now show me what you have.”
    “Of course.” Borisov snapped his