Chapter 295: The Journey
The Russian man named Ivan was exceedingly cold and distant, as though nothing in the world interested him except the mechanical gadgets he carried with him.
Still, Frank managed to strike up a conversation by taking advantage of a well-known Russian trait—a fondness for alcohol.
Even so, Ivan was not much of a talker. Most of the time, he simply listened, offering only a few words now and then.
Despite his aloof demeanor, after several days confined together in the narrow vehicle—with only the three of them inside—their relationship gradually eased. From time to time, they could at least exchange a few sentences.
When introducing himself, Frank used a false name. Pinkman did the same.
After all, they were complete strangers, riding together in a black-market smuggling vehicle. Caution was only natural. Using an alias was normal—giving one's real name would have been the strange choice.
As for the Russian claiming his name was Ivan, Frank strongly suspected that this, too, was an alias.
But it didn't really matter.
They were strangers brought together by chance, sharing nothing more than this single journey. Once they reached their destination and went their separate ways, they would likely never meet again for the rest of their lives. Whether the names were real or fake was irrelevant—they were merely labels.
Ivan, for his part, showed no concern about the aliases Frank and Pinkman used.
Through casual conversation, Frank learned that Ivan was indeed from Russia—and that he had left the country not long ago.
However, Ivan's true purpose for coming to the United States, or why he was heading to New York in particular, remained unclear to Frank.
But one thing was certain: Ivan was not on the same path as them.
"So you're going to New York to look for someone?" Frank asked. "Family, maybe? Relatives?"
"No," Ivan replied.
"Not relatives… then friends from your hometown?" Frank stroked his beard as he guessed.
"No."
"Then—" Frank was about to continue.
"I'm going to find an enemy," Ivan cut in, his patience clearly wearing thin.
"An enemy?" Frank paused. "You're going there for revenge? What kind of grudge?"
After several days together, Frank had come to understand that although Ivan was taciturn and looked intimidating—almost unapproachable—he was actually fairly easy to talk to.
"A blood feud," Ivan said simply, lowering his head and returning to the object in his hands.
Frank didn't press further. Digging into someone's wounds was bad conversation. Instead, he changed the subject.
"What is that thing you're holding?"
"A micro–arc reactor auxiliary unit," Ivan answered.
"Uh…" Frank's expression turned awkward. He understood every word individually, but together they made no sense to him.
"Sounds impressive," Frank said. "My son's into stuff like that too—always tinkering with machines. He even invented a police scanner. He's in college now, studying physics and all that."
"Oh," Ivan replied casually, showing little interest.
The conversation fizzled out. With nothing left to talk about, silence returned to the cramped vehicle.
Frank rolled his shoulders, pulled the blanket tighter around himself, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts wander.
Personally escorting every shipment was exhausting.
He had already made up his mind: once this run was over, he would find a local partner in New Mexico. The size of the territory didn't matter—what mattered was having reliable distribution channels.
Over the past few months, Blue Angel had spread outward from Chicago and New York, flooding nearby states. It was wildly popular—so much so that it could be said to have gone nationwide.
Not long ago, Pinkman had even spotted Blue Angel circulating openly on the streets during a date. Whether it came from Chicago or New York was unclear—but one thing was certain: it had reached New Mexico.
The bullet had flown long enough. It was time to establish local partners.
With Blue Angel already circulating worldwide—and two major smokescreens drawing attention elsewhere—there was little risk of suspicion.
More importantly, a large-scale lab needed to be built as soon as possible. Demand far outstripped supply. Production simply couldn't keep up. Chicago and New York had already begun rationing shipments.
Ironically, the shortage only made things worse—in the best possible way.
Scarcity drove prices higher and higher, creating a hunger-marketing effect. Blue Angel's street price skyrocketed daily.
Yet Frank's purchase price never increased.
First-tier, second-tier, even third-tier distributors were all making obscene profits. Everyone was satisfied. Everyone admired Heisenberg. No one ever complained about earning too much money.
Once this shipment was complete—once the New Mexico lab was operational and local channels secured—Frank would finally be free.
I wonder how Fiona's accounting studies are going…
Lost in thought, Frank slowly drifted to sleep.
Several days passed in a blur. Chicago was finally in sight.
The journey was almost over.
"We're here," Frank said before getting off the vehicle. "Even if we never meet again, I hope the rest of your journey goes smoothly."
After such a long, lonely trip, even a man like Ivan—who barely spoke—had become, in some sense, a friend.
"We won't meet again?" Ivan chuckled darkly, tugging at the corner of his mouth in a smile that was more unsettling than friendly. "I may never see you again. But you… you'll probably see me."
"See you again?" Frank frowned. "Where?"
"On television," Ivan said.
Frank went quiet.
"Alright," he said finally. "Knowing too much is never a good thing. You don't need to say any more."
He understood.
Ivan wasn't just seeking revenge—he was planning something big. Something that would make the news. Frank wanted no part of that.
"We crossed paths by chance," Ivan continued. "You bought me drinks all along the way. Take this—consider it repayment."
He unzipped his bag and pulled out a thick roll of papers.
"What's this?" Frank asked, unrolling it slightly. It looked like design schematics—diagrams, formulas, figures he couldn't begin to understand.
"Design plans. I won't need them anymore," Ivan said. "Burn them. Throw them away. Do whatever you want. Just don't show them to anyone casually."
"Is it really that serious?" Frank asked. "Showing them to someone?"
"Depends," Ivan shrugged. "Could be very serious. Or nothing at all. If you happen to meet someone who knows what they're looking at, you could sell them."
"For how much?"
"A few hundred million," Ivan said calmly. "Maybe a billion or two."
"..."
Frank couldn't help but stare at him.
A pile of paper like this? Hundreds of millions? Billions?
What an absurd claim.