Chapter 1991: Chapter 830: Poisonous Bugs Everywhere

October 19, 1997, France, Marseille.

The rain had been falling for three days straight.

The roof of Warehouse No. 17 had several leaks, with tin buckets placed underneath. The sound of dripping water mixed with the rustling of plastic bags at the packaging table. The sweet, cloying smell was stronger than usual; even with the ventilation system at full blast, it couldn’t clear it out.

Samir stared at the ledger, the tip of his pen hovering over a line of numbers.

Five tons, three and a half tons sold.

Too fast.

So fast it defied logic.

In his 20 years as a drug trafficker, he had never seen such a flow rate. It wasn’t the addicts rushing to buy; it was the small distributors hoarding. Those who usually only took three to five kilograms were now asking for fifty, a hundred kilograms. Paying without hesitation, without asking the price, without asking about the source.

What are they afraid of? 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

Or rather, what are they preparing for?

"Samir."

Costa pushed the door open and walked in without knocking. The old man’s suit was wet on the shoulders, and he didn’t bother to wipe it, slamming a fax down on the table.

Samir looked down.

It was an internal report from Genoa Port customs, purchased with money.

The report stated that in the past ten days, the Italian Coast Guard had intercepted semi-submersible transport vessels at three different locations. Not ordinary smuggling boats, but professionally modified vessels, with ballast tanks 30% larger than normal, clearly meant for submersion.

No one was on board. The GPS had been removed, and the engine serial numbers filed off.

The conclusion of the report, written in red pen, read: Suspected new drug transport tools, source direction: North African West Coast.

"Five tons is just the beginning," Costa’s voice was low. "They’re using us as a springboard. The goods enter through Marseille and then flow to Italy and Germany. Do you believe that of the three and a half tons we’ve handled, less than five hundred kilograms remain on the streets of Marseille?"

Samir didn’t speak. He believed it.

"Godfather," he put down his pen, "we’re being put over the fire. Twelve Albanians are dead, and their family has already offered a bounty of five hundred thousand francs for ’Scorpion’s head. The informant on the police’s side says the Paris headquarters has dispatched an anti-drug team, not to investigate the dock massacre—but to trace the source of these goods."

Costa didn’t respond. He walked deeper into the warehouse, watching the workers who were focused on packaging. The dim light stretched his shadow long.

"That African," Costa said, "’Scorpion,’ he’s coming for the second payment tonight. Tell him, we’re not taking the next batch of goods."

Samir was taken aback.

"It’s not that we’re not cooperating," Costa turned around, "but we need a different approach. The goods can continue entering Europe. But Marseille is just a channel; it can’t become a battlefield. I want him—or rather, the ’Black Mamba’ behind him—to sign an agreement with me. Division of territory, profit-sharing, and most importantly..."

He paused.

"Armed personnel. His soldiers can’t set foot on French soil. If there’s a need for cleanup, give me the intel, and I’ll provide the manpower. He’ll provide the money and weapons. The underground order of Marseille must be maintained by the people of Marseille. That’s the bottom line."

Samir looked at Costa. The old man was sixty, his hair grizzled, his face etched with lines like a carved statue. At that moment, he realized that Costa’s forty-year reign in Marseille wasn’t because he was the fiercest, but because he was the clearest.

He knew when to pull back.

At eleven o’clock at night, "Scorpion" arrived.

Still in that ill-fitting suit, with the same expressionless face. Two Africans stood behind him, at the warehouse door, not coming inside. Hands tucked into their pockets.

Samir pushed the cash-filled case over.

"Thirty percent," he said, "according to the previous agreement."

"Scorpion" didn’t count the money, just closed the lid. His French was more fluent than two weeks ago: "Mr. Costa, another ten tons of goods is arriving next week. The route is safer than this time, and we need you to arrange a new storage point."

Costa stepped out of the shadows.

"I can’t handle ten tons."

"Scorpion’s" eyes changed for the first time.

"The Marseille market—"

"The Marseille market is not the issue," Costa interrupted, "it’s your people. The incident at the dock made too much noise. The Albanians are not easy targets; they have Eastern European connections and may bring in tougher enforcers. My informants tell me that the Paris headquarters has opened a case, specifically investigating the ’New Africa Network.’ If your soldiers appear again, Marseille will turn into a military control zone."

"Scorpion" was silent for a few seconds.

"Mr. Costa, are you suggesting ending our cooperation?"

"No." Costa stepped forward, less than two meters from "Scorpion." Samir’s right hand instinctively went to his back— the old man never got this close to an adversary.

"The cooperation continues. But your people are not allowed to set foot on French soil again. If obstacles need to be removed, tell me the list. I’ll supply the manpower, you’ll provide the money and weapons. Profit distribution: I take sixty, you take forty."

"Scorpion’s" mouth twitched slightly, not a smile, but an assessment.

"Mr. Costa, you’re well aware that your people can’t outmatch the Albanians."

"I know."

"Then why do you get sixty percent?"

Costa took something out of his pocket and placed it on the wooden box between them.

It was a photograph.

A satellite image, high resolution. In the image was the West African offshore, a rusty refrigerated cargo ship alongside two semi-submersible transport vessels.

"Far Seer."

Costa articulated each word.

"Your stronghold, mobile base, and transfer station. Your Boss ’Black Mamba’ should be aboard this ship right now."

"Scorpion’s" face changed for the first time.

"This photo," Costa said flatly, "cost me five hundred thousand francs, bought from a U.S. arms dealer. He told me it was taken by the CIA just last month. They’ve been tracking you, from Congo to the Guinea Gulf, and then to the Mediterranean. Do you know why they haven’t taken action yet?"