The next morning, Dimitri Volkov arrived at Ricardo's house. The pre-dawn air hung crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. He knocked, the sharp rap echoing in the stillness. "Hey, Ricardo," he called, his voice a low rumble that cut through the quiet. "C'mon, you said you wanted to do this early."
A groan, muffled by the thin walls, answered him. "Dang it," Ricardo mumbled, finally appearing, his hair a mess, eyes still blurry with sleep. "It's three in the morning! You're a beast, Volkov." He stretched, yawning widely. "Give me a minute, man. Need some coffee."
"Fine, fine," Ricardo conceded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Hold up." The sounds of rushing water and the clatter of a toothbrush – a surprisingly rhythmic counterpoint to the early morning quiet – filled the air as Ricardo dashed to the bathroom. He emerged minutes later, hair slicked back, a determined glint in his eyes, the smell of cheap aftershave battling with the lingering scent of coffee.
"Ahh, good, you're done," Dimitri said, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke that hung briefly in the air before dissipating. The acrid scent mingled with the coffee and aftershave. He crushed the cigarette under his heel. "Let's go," he added, heading towards Ricardo's beat-up sedan, its paint chipped and faded, the metallic scent of rust faint in the air.
They piled into the car, the engine sputtering to life with a cough and a groan. The smell of old leather and gasoline filled the cramped space. Ricardo fiddled with the radio, finally settling on a salsa station. "So, Ricardo," Dimitri asked, his voice low, "where are we going to find your so-called 'members'?"
"One's at the docks," Ricardo replied, his voice tight with anticipation. The rhythmic thump of the car's engine punctuated his words. "Okay, ese," he added, tapping his fingers on the worn dashboard.
The dockyard was a cacophony of sounds – the creak of ropes, the clang of metal, the shouts of dockworkers, the distant foghorn's mournful cry, and the insistent rhythm of the salsa music still faintly audible from Ricardo's car radio. The air was thick with the smells of salt, diesel, and fish. Dimitri squinted, his eyes scanning the crowd. The gritty texture of the dock beneath his feet was a stark contrast to the smooth leather of his shoes. "You mean that guy?" he asked, pointing to a man shrouded in heavy clothing – a thick coat, a worn hat pulled low, and sturdy boots. The man's presence was almost invisible, blending into the shadows. "He looks like some kind of…idiot," Dimitri muttered, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"Yeah, I know," Ricardo chuckled, leaning against a rusty crate. "But this guy's good. His name's Mike. Kind of a nerd, but good with weapons. A little…unhinged," Ricardo added with a shrug. He spat on the ground. "Ay, caramba! Crazy, but good."
Dimitri watched as Mike, seemingly oblivious to their presence, engaged in a hushed transaction with another man. The clink of coins was audible even from a distance. A stray dog sniffed at a discarded fish head nearby. "He looks like he's selling something," Dimitri observed.
"Yeah, he sells guns," Ricardo explained. "Really good ones, too. Custom-made. That's why he's worth the wait." He pointed to a nearby crate, its rough wood scarred and weathered. "Check out that box," he added, nodding towards it. "That's where he keeps his…best work."
After a tense wait, punctuated by the rhythmic clang of a nearby crane and the occasional seagull's cry, Mike completed the exchange, tucking a wad of cash into his pocket. "Hey, Mike!" Ricardo called out, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.
Mike turned, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw Ricardo. He then took off his coat, revealing a surprisingly sharp suit beneath. The sudden movement caused a nearby seagull to squawk and take flight. "So, that's the guy?" Mike asked, pointing at Dimitri.
"Yeah," Ricardo confirmed. "What a surprise, huh?" He grinned, a flash of white teeth in the pre-dawn gloom.
Mike rushed towards Dimitri, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and nervousness. The rough texture of the dock was jarring against the smoothness of his suit. "Oh my god," Mike stammered, extending a hand to shake Dimitri's. "I've heard so much about you! You're like the real-life John Wick, but better…because you're Russian!"
Dimitri chuckled awkwardly, a rare display of vulnerability. "Ahh, yes, it is me," he replied. "Nice to meet you."
"Okay, okay," Ricardo interrupted, sensing the awkwardness escalating. "Let's talk later, in the car. We've got a lot to discuss." He clapped Dimitri on the back.
Later, as they drove away, the rhythmic hum of the engine a constant backdrop and the salsa music now replaced with something more subdued, Ricardo, still buzzing from the encounter, turned to Dimitri. "So, Dimitri," he began, "I've never met a Russian before. Your accent…it's really top-notch. And that voice…it sounds like it came straight out of a movie!"
Dimitri laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that belied his usually stoic demeanor. "I bet you think I can shoot guns with no hands!" he joked. "Or escape from a maximum-security prison using only gum and a nail scraper tool!"
Ricardo grinned. "Alright, alright," he said, playfully mimicking Mike's earlier enthusiasm. "Enough with the Russian stereotypes. Let's just get this job done."