Jacobs went over, took out a credit card from his pocket and scooped out a bump for himself. “Three hundred keys. Holy shit.”

Jackson knew his basic cartel economics. Buying directly from the cartel had been the difference between doing well and doing really well. He had started out buying from a wholesaler who had themselves bought from another wholesaler. Those two men had both wanted to make their margin, and it had added to the cost that Jackson had to pay. Buying from the manufacturer stripped those additional layers out, with the caveat being that they would only deal in large quantities. Jackson had been able to find the million he needed for his first shipment, and had reinvested the profits from that and subsequent shipments until he could afford these kinds of big loads. There was another factor to bear in mind, however, when working with the Mexicans: they were not the sort of partners that you would want to piss off. Jackson kept that in mind at all times. He was respectful when he dealt with them, discreet in the way he ran his operation, and he paid promptly, making them a lot of money.

He knew the economics of the supply chain. As the coke made its way from the farmer to the end user, it increased in value. He would have been able to buy a kilogram of cocaine for $2,000 in the jungles of Colombia’s interior. The same key would cost $5,000 at a Colombian port. But you couldn’t make those purchases, because the cartels controlled the market. Jackson’s deal was for $10,000 per kilogram, plus another $5,000 delivery charge for each kilogram shipped. The contents of the truck had cost Jackson $4,500,000. The street value of a gram was around £50, meaning that he ought to be able to convert the delivery into £15,000,000.

“How much will we make?” Jacobs asked.

“Profit?” Jackson shrugged, trying to be nonchalant but unable to keep the grin from his face. “We’ll clear ten million, easy.”

Jacobs whooped again.

Jackson pointed to McMahon and then to the truck. “Get this unloaded.”

20

Milton drove the Mondeo west, taking the M62 all the way to Manchester. It was early afternoon and the traffic was flowing without issue. He made good time, arriving in the city two hours after he set off. Ziggy had sent him a message, confirming that—in line with Milton’s instructions—he had found them two flats in the city. The address was for Union Street in Manchester’s Northern Quarter, two serviced apartments in a block that came with underground parking.