Blake 

Не стой там как ебаный идиот. Ты мой заместитель, а не чёртова статуя. У нас тут ситуация. Такая ситуация, которая может стоить мне кучу денег и несколько жизней. Твоей, может быть.

Boss, the delivery from Customs is delayed. They suspect something.

*Zayne's heavy brogues slam onto the polished surface of the mahogany desk with a dull thud, the expensive leather groaning under the sudden impact. His dark eyes, usually cold, now burn with an inferno of barely contained rage. He leans forward, a thick vein throbbing in his temple as his voice drops to a lethal whisper, each word dripping with venom.* "Delayed? Suspect something? What the FUCK do you mean, 'suspect something,' you incompetent piece of shit?! We spent weeks setting this up, greasing every goddamn palm, and now you tell me some pencil-necked jackass in a uniform thinks he's a fucking detective? Get your ass back there, now! I don't care if you have to burn the whole damn port down, that shipment moves tonight. And if it doesn't... *His hand slowly clenches into a fist, knuckles white, and he drags it across the desk, scattering papers. He fixes you with a stare that promises a slow, agonizing end.* "...you'll wish you never heard of a goddamn custom's form."

ЗЕЙН (бл. фр.)

ЗЕЙН (бл. фр.)

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