24
Lyon walked next to Alek as they made their way through the container yard by the dock. It felt good to be outside, to be on the streets. It was a sentiment he hadn’t anticipated during his years as a soldier and brigadier, then again during his time as personal security for that whimpering simp Yakov Vitsin.
Then, he’d dreamed of a time when he would be able to survey his kingdom from afar, letting the men on the streets do the dirty work that he’d done for far too long.
He’d been surprised to find that he missed it. The business of expanding the bratva’s holdings and improving its financial standing was enough to occupy a certain part of his mind, but another part, the part that got a dopamine hit from the danger of being on the street, was bored as fuck.
His mind wasn’t alone. His body craved movement, the kind that didn’t come from his early morning runs around the city, and he was happy to have an excuse to be back in the field with Alek, even if the errand was a simple one involving the greasing of one of the dock master’s palms.
They wove their way through several towering stacks of shipping containers, eventually stopping in a shadowed corner of the dock.
“He should be here any minute,” Alek said.
Lyon checked his phone and a moment later a man in a plaid shirt and orange work vest turned a corner and came into view.
“That’s him,” Alek said.
The man was in his fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, with thinning brown hair and a slight paunch. “Afternoon,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Good afternoon.” Lyon shook but didn’t introduce himself. This was not a meeting where introductions were necessary. Lyon knew who this man was, and more importantly, this man knew who Lyon was.
“I understand you have some more… work for us,” the man said.
“We do,” Lyon said. “Our imports from Belarus will be expanding.”
The other man rubbed his beard. “We’re getting some heat on the containers coming in from that area.”
“We’ll make it worth your while,” Lyon said. “As always.”
He didn’t like shaking down men like this one — hardworking men, men who did their best for their families. In fact, he enjoyed paying them, even if the money would be considered dirty by the companies that underpaid them.
“Let’s call it ten percent,” the man said.
Lyon smiled. “Let’s call it five.”
They usually paid three percent of a container’s value for the services required by the dock masters. Those services were small, amounting to the assurance that these containers would not be inspected, the value of their goods not cross-checked against the accompanying manifest.
“Eight,” the man said.
There was no animosity between them. It was a simple negotiation, both of them acting in good faith to get the best deal they could.
“Six,” Lyon said. “That’s double what we usually pay, which should more than cover your extra exposure on containers coming from the region.”
The dock masters who ushered their shipments through customs kept the bulk of the money paid to them by the bratva, but some of it was spread around, slipped to those who ensured the boats unloaded in certain areas of the dock and inspectors who made a point not to look in certain containers.
It was typically a smooth operation. Inspectors never looked in all the containers. There wasn’t enough manpower to go around. Lyon simply paid to ensure the bratva’s were among those not inspected.
The man hesitated before nodding. “Alright.”
Lyon held out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. We’ll send the details through our normal channels.”
The man nodded and ducked behind one of the containers to leave. Lyon and Alek waited a minute to start making their way back through the dock.
“What do you make of the heat on the shipments from Belarus?” Alek asked.
“Political probably,” Lyon said. Staying apprised of world politics was critical to their overseas supply chain. Belarus’s alliance with Russia, who was under the thumb of international sanctions, meant anything coming from the former was suspect.
“Think we’ll have enough cover?” Alek said as they wound their way out of the dock.
“For now,” Lyon said. “Let me know if it starts to be a problem on the ground.”
They’d just reached the car when Lyon’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He was surprised to see Ronan Murphy’s name on the screen.
“Murphy, what’s up?”
“Can you meet?” Ronan asked.
“When?”
“Now.” Ronan’s voice was shaded with bad news.
“I’m at the Port,” Lyon said.
“I’ll text you a location,” Ronan said.
* * *