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?
Or rather, what are they preparing for?
"Samir."
