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Three shipments, in six months. Three fucking shipments that cost him in time, money and reputation. It was enough to bring his frustration from a bubble to a boil, and James’ back teeth clenched for a moment as he let out a breath before continuing with the phone call he’d been a part of for a solid two hours.
“Do I-” The briefest of pauses. “Sound like I give a fuck about them being spooked by what happens after?” He questioned, insidious anger lacing the query and making clear he didn’t much care for getting an answer. “After, isn’t my fucking problem. What clients do with their own guns is their business. Not mine, not the people working for me.” He hung up with an aggravated sound, having already made crystal clear that the team responsible be dealt with in a drastic manner; placing the cell phone down on his home office desk as if he’d have liked nothing more than to shove it down someone’s throat.










