Dorothy Ewels

Rage bubbled through Dylan like acid as he watched his friend and business associate via the security monitor. As he stood before the bank of screens, he studied Omari pacing like a caged animal within the confines of a reception room. He’d specifically given instructions the man be left alone in the room.

I see you. I see the nerves you’re trying so hard to hide. You’re right to be scared, you stupid bastard.

While the thoughts churned in his mind, Dylan stood perfectly still. Outwardly, he gave no indication of his inner turmoil. That was his strongest asset in his business. In his circles, he was known as El Tiburón. The Shark – cold and calculating. His name was whispered in fear.

The report he’d received from America regarding the last shipment to arrive lay on the desk beneath the row of monitors, as if mocking him. He snatched it up, skimming the contents for the umpteenth time. Now, the shipment that should have been leaving in a day or two would have to be delayed as they inspected the merchandise for damage. A fresh wave of searing fury washed through him as he contemplated the possible loss of revenue.

His brother, Mason, served as his operations manager and had brought the issue to his attention initially. While there were times Dylan worried about his brother’s mental state in his personal life, there was no question the man excelled at his job. Mason never missed a thing when it came to their business.

His summons had been brief and intentionally vague, crafted to create the impression of an invite. It wouldn’t do to tip the man off. Omari was slippery and would disappear without a trace. If he did, it would rob Dylan of his one chance to exact his revenge. And that really wouldn’t do.

They’d met at college, and he’d soon discovered he had much in common with the Congolese national. When he’d been drafted into the syndicate, his friend had been a natural choice to help him expand his business outside of South Africa and into Africa as a whole. Omari had a natural head for business and a wide list of contacts that would serve them well.

But in the past year, things had changed. The friend he thought he knew had morphed into someone unrecognizable. It had only recently come to his attention the man had been sampling a variety of the merchandise. That’s when discrepancies that had cropped up in the books made sense.

Dylan whirled around and stalked to the door. Before leaving the room, he spoke softly to his righthand man and trusted enforcer.

“Christoff, please bring Mr. Kitengi to the boardroom.”

“Yes, Mr. Hunt, sir. Right away.”

As he settled in at the conference table, Dylan called up the surveillance for the reception room Omari was in. He watched as Christoff opened the door and motioned for the man to follow him. As his friend went to do as instructed, Dylan turned the screen of his phone off and sat back in his chair. Hands folded on top of the table, he waited for them.

At the enforcer’s knock, Dylan called out, “Enter.” The door opened. “Ah, Omari. Please, come in,” Dylan invited.

The man stepped into the room.

“Good afternoon, Dylan. It’s good to see you.” Omari offered his hand in greeting.

Shaking the proffered hand, Dylan smiled. “Come, sit. What can I get you to drink?”

“Some of that single-malt scotch of yours would go down well, my friend.”

“Christoff, if you will?” He turned his attention to the document lying on the table. With a gesture to the papers, he addressed Omari. “I’ve received a report from the US. It seems we’ve suffered some damage of the one brand of merchandise and loss of another brand. Thankfully, the loss is minimal, but the damage. Well, the damage is going to be more costly. And that displeases me.”

“I’m sorry, Dylan, but I don’t follow. Everything was in order when the shipment left. Was there a storm at sea? And the loss of merchandise – did this not perhaps happen at customs?”

Dylan’s cold smile did not reach his eyes. Omari attempted to surreptitiously wipe his hands down the leg of his pants. Ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

“There’s always the possibility,” Dylan replied. Steepling his fingers, he rested his chin on his fingertips. Studied the man opposite him. His gaze didn’t waver as Christoff returned with the drinks. Not once did he blink as he regarded his friend. The bitter taste of betrayal was a flavor he found he had no stomach for.

“Christoff, would you please be so kind as to hand this document to Mr. Kitengi?”

Dylan continued to watch as a clearly uneasy Omari read the pages. Sweat had beaded on the man’s forehead and top lip, and Dylan watched as a drop rolled haphazardly down his friend’s cheek.

“Dylan …”

With a chopping motion, Dylan stopped him. Ever so softly, he said, “You get one chance to tell me the truth.”

“I–I don’t kn—” Omari swallowed. “I don’t know what happened here. But I’ll make it my mission to find out.” He snapped his mouth shut as Dylan continued to stare at him, not saying anything more.

Silence stretched uncomfortably in the heavy atmosphere. Dylan saw the other man’s eyes widen in fear as Dylan stood and came around. Resting against the sturdy wooden table, Dylan stretched his legs out in front of him. Crossed them at the ankles. He had yet to say a word, all the while holding Omari in his steady gaze. Gracing Omari with another emotionless smile, Dylan crossed his arms over his chest.

“You stupid bastard! Did you really think you could ‘sample’ the merchandise without consequences? They are not prostitutes for your personal pleasure; they are my business, my means of making money. Not to mention the powder you’ve also been ‘sampling’!” Dylan suddenly screamed, his face mottled with rage.

“No, that’s not– I– no, no—” Omari held his hands up as, once again, Dylan cut him off.

“Shut up! I just spent the better part of an hour trying to calm my associate in San Antonio after he got a good look at what you did to your last bedmate. It wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t beat the ever-loving crap out of them. But that’s neither here nor there, since I will not tolerate this kind of bullshit. This is my business, not your personal playground. If you want a fuck buddy, find one of your own. Keep your hands off my merchandise.”

Omari jumped to his feet, terror clear on his face.

Without warning, Dylan pounced. He struck the man, and as Omari reeled from the force of the blow, Dylan went crazy, punching him repeatedly as his anger grew. When Omari finally fell to the ground unconscious, Dylan didn’t even notice as he continued his assault by kicking the prone man. When his rage finally abated and Omari lay unmoving on the floor, Dylan turned to Christoff and said, “Give me your gun.”

Taking the pistol in hand, Dylan calmly emptied the clip into the man who had been his friend and business associate, his go-between with Africa.

He straightened his clothes, and sighing deeply, turned back to Christoff, snarling, “Find me someone reliable to take Mr. Kitengi’s place.” He started for the door but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and Christoff, get the cleaners in to clean up this mess.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Hunt. Consider it done.”