Globusz^® Publishing 

Two blue trucks pulled up in front of an abandoned warehouse on Shanidze Street in Tbilisi, Georgia. Two men wearing work uniforms and baseball caps got out of the passenger side of each of the trucks. They walked up to the warehouse office door and rang a doorbell. In a few seconds one of the warehouse garage doors opened and the two men walked in warily to check things out before they allowed their drivers to pull the trucks inside. As they walked into the dark warehouse from the sunlit street they first heard the footsteps before their eyes adjusted to the darkness and they saw the tall man approaching them. Tafar Rasulon wore his everyday camouflage uniform with a black beret and well-shined black boots and belt. Also well shined were his black gun holster and the long black leather sheath that holds his knife. The two men looked at each other and then back to Tafar who asked, “Is everything in order?”

One of the men took off his baseball hat that he was obviously uncomfortable wearing, but needed to disguise his mid-eastern appearance, and said, “Of course, did I not tell you that we are professionals.”

The two men turned around quickly when they heard the sound of someone wearing shoes with metal-cleated heels on the concrete floor behind them. They turned and saw Ella Mamedov standing at the garage door, almost as if to block their exit.

Tafar walked up to Abdula Nassir and extended his hand to him and said, “Saying and doing are two different things, I’ve been burned by arms merchants before.”

“Not by me you haven’t,” Abdula replied.

“That’s right, because if you did, you’d be dead like the others.”

After he said this, Tafar stared coldly at Abdula making him noticeably uncomfortable before he laughed out loud and came over and put his big arms around the shorter Abdula’s shoulders.

“Forgive my distrust, it’s part of my job. My boss is a very gullible man, as I’m sure you are aware, and someone has to look out for him.”

“I understand,” Abdula said as he waved the driver of one of the trucks to drive the truck inside the warehouse.

“I heard of your reputation years ago, Abdula, that’s why I recommended you for this project.”

“I appreciate that,” Abdula said as he opened the back door of the truck and let Tafar look inside.

“Citrus crates, good thinking, and I presume that there is real fruit in side the crate to cover the goods?”

“Of course,” Abdula said trying not to act insulted by the question.

Tafar shut the door on the truck and said, “I will not delay you any longer, let me get out of your way so you could finish your mission.”

Abdula yelled to his men to get into the trucks and get ready to move out.

“When our mission is complete,” Tafar said, “We will come down to see you in Syria and toast the beginning of our successful relationship.”

Abdula smiled and nodded politely at Tafar and Ella who walked up next to him, but thought to himself, “Please, don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

He has been around elite military types for too many years to know that you don’t develop friendships with these killers. It’s hard enough making a living selling weapons to them, but you sure as hell don’t want to invite them into your living room with your wife and children around.

Abdula walked up to Tafar and kissed his Muslim brother on both cheeks and said, “You’re welcome to follow me to Ismailly, or follow Mustaf down to Batumi if you’d like.”

“Thank you, my brother, I have a few more items to take care of here in Tbilisi, but I will catch up to you in due time. Tell Mustaf that I will meet him on the ship in Batumi tonight.”

“Hopefully, we will see you when you get back to Ismailly,” Abdula said as he silently hoped that this doesn’t happen.

The two blue trucks pulled out of the warehouse and Tafar closed the garage door behind them.