Chapter 45

Dealing with Lao Maozi, as the Chinese referred to the Russians, was often a matter of understanding the nuances of their culture, and knowing how to handle a drink or two could go a long way in establishing trust.

Tang Dao, after returning to the hotel, found himself in a state of inebriation. He stumbled into the bathroom, where he embraced the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach. His throat felt raw, and he desperately needed something to soothe it. With a towel in hand, he made his way to the sofa, collapsing onto it with a flushed face. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and groaned audibly, his mouth hanging open, resembling a man who had seen better days.

With Andrejevic's presence, the evening had turned into a drinking bout, and Joseph, their Ukrainian contact, had promised to help secure the Il-76 Squadron for Tang Dao. Alcohol had flowed freely, and now Tang Dao was paying the price.

As Tang Dao drifted in and out of consciousness, the tranquility of his room was shattered by a heavy knock on the door. The sudden noise jolted him awake, and in his confused state, he struggled to his feet. Dizziness overcame him, and he lost his balance, tumbling off the sofa. Fortunately, the fall wasn't severe, sparing him any significant injuries.

Rubbing his temples, Tang Dao managed to regain his senses and croaked, "Please come in."

It was Robert who entered the room, his face etched with worry. "Boss, it seems our goods are being targeted."

Tang Dao's eyes snapped open, and his expression turned fierce. This was a situation he couldn't afford to ignore.

...

Osborne and John stood before a group of more than twenty white men, their sleeves concealing steel pipes. The leader of the Ukrainians bore a racist tattoo on his left arm, reading, "Все, кромеукраинцев, должныбытьубиты!" which translated to "Everyone must be killed except Ukrainians." His hairstyle was a provocative mohawk, and his demeanor reeked of arrogance.

These individuals belonged to a local gang in Kyiv, and most of them were a mix of gangsters and students. The political landscape had left its mark on various aspects of society, including education, which had suffered greatly. Social tensions ran high, and it wasn't uncommon for people to carry weapons like steel pipes into places such as the airport. In the early 1990s, Kyiv had gained notoriety as one of the most frightening cities.

Were these people here to extort protection money?

Demanding protection money at an airport was highly unusual.

However, these individuals were bold and ruthless, yet not entirely lacking in intelligence. They understood not to provoke those who appeared too formidable. Instead, they preyed on the vulnerable, demonstrating the classic behavior of bullies who feared confronting the strong.

"Sir, we are willing to pay $500, which should be enough for you to leave," John said, positioning himself to block Osborn, fearing that the gentleman might lose his temper.

$500?

Greed glimmered in the leader's eyes, but he couldn't help glancing at the warehouse behind them. Even though it was securely closed, rumors had spread about a massive plane filled with daily necessities. With over 40 people involved, each gang member could potentially earn a reward of $200. This incident had become well-known in Kyiv, particularly among those with connections. They had come to investigate.

"Do you think I'm a beggar?" The leader pushed John aside. "$2,000 per person."

John's face contorted in anger, and suddenly he felt something under his armpit. When he looked down, he saw a foot extending and kicking the leader in the head and stomach. While it wasn't a serious blow, it was enough to make the leader yelp and tumble to the ground. Osborn, feeling the throbbing pain in his head from the alcohol, exclaimed, "I'll send you to meet God!"

Before anyone could react, John was also shoved aside. Osborn swiftly drew a gun from behind his suit and fired several shots into the fallen leader's head.

The leader's chest erupted like fireworks, a gruesome spectacle of brilliance.

Guns... murder?

Suka, the Russian slang for "bitch," was the only word that came to mind!

Witnessing this, the gang members were almost petrified, and they began to flee. Each of them had fired their guns, so why were they still charging with iron rods?

A particularly unfortunate gang member at the front was struck by a jeep coming from the opposite direction, although luckily at a slow speed. Still, the impact left him injured. Meanwhile, the leader, who had been knocked down, groaned in pain. Osborn's actions had left him unable to speak, as if he had lost his voice.

Robert and the others, holding their weapons, were completely stunned. They instinctively crouched down, hands covering their heads, as if they were imitating U.S. military procedures. After all, North America was most familiar with such practices.

"Boss..." John hurried over.

"What's going on?" Tang Dao asked, his face stern. He was just a businessman and loathed unexpected complications.

"They wanted protection money. Their demand was exorbitant, and they attempted to break into the warehouse, so Osborn fired," John cleverly shifted most of the blame onto the leader, thankful that Osborn had saved him from taking responsibility.

Break into the warehouse?

Tang Dao's eyes narrowed, and a sudden unease settled in. There were millions of dollars' worth of goods in that warehouse. Was someone trying to set him up?

Could it be that other arms dealers were involved, attempting to sabotage his business?

Tang Dao began to envision various scenarios. He was a naturally paranoid person who preferred to have control over every aspect of his operations. He turned and approached the gang members who were squatting on the ground.