Chapter Seven
In which shooting people and blowing stuff up is what family is all about.
Roman…
"Now, this is what family is all about," I whisper, watching the barren scene and empty roads.
We've surrounded a remote dock area and warehouse down the coast from Portland, Maine. It may be early summer, but in Maine, spring's icy tentacles seem unwilling to let go as Alexsey shivers, pulling on a black hoodie. The wind sweeps in, salt-tinged and pure.
The Morales Cartel has been forced to move their operations further out of New York as we methodically crush their attempts to infiltrate our territory, which is why we're crouching in the chilly seagrass in Maine.
Morales' men are lazy; his deck crew should have been here by now, ready to offload the cargo.
The warehouse isn't in great shape, cracked and pitted windows, and flimsy front doors.
But the docking area has new heavy-duty tie-offs and moveable conveyor belts to empty the ship's cargo hold quickly.
Looking through binoculars, I can see the lights from Morales' ship as it heads into the harbor.
"I'll bite," Dmitri says. "How is this what family is all about?"
"Quality time, brother." I hand him the binoculars. "Having deep, meaningful conversations, speaking about our hopes and dreams, our plans for the future. The hottest women we've ever fucked."
"I'm not sure asking Dmitri about his long and sordid past is a good idea." Alexsey's laughing quietly. "Though mine has to be Mary Sue Roswell, that beauty queen from Georgia who came to New York to be an actress? She could suck a-"
"Shut the fuck up," Dmitri snaps. "We're working here."
"Oh, believe me, she was a lot of work to get into bed," Alexsey says.
"Cargo trucks coming in from the south." Ivan murmurs in my earpiece.
"Got it," I say, tapping open the channel we're using tonight. "Everyone, the trucks are heading into the dock area now, the ship should be typing off within ten minutes. Stay sharp."
"The thing I can't figure out," Dmitri whispers, "is why that old bastard Morales is upping his game now? His operation isn't expanding, the Jaworski Brothers have been laundering his money for years, and our contacts give us a pretty good idea of just how much he's making."
"This is a huge shipment." I'm watching the ship through the binoculars. "I'm sure there's a lieutenant overseeing tonight's exchange, someone who we can have a discussion with. At length."
Dmitri taps his communicator. "I need the highest-ranking Morales lieutenant that’s here tonight. Be careful who you shoot. They'll be one of the lazy fuckers hiding in the back. Morales's upper management doesn't believe in fighting with their men."
We all go silent as the cargo trucks arrive.
They're well-maintained and barely make any noise as they pull up to the dock, engines idling.
The Reina Oscura pulls into the landing, the crew jumping down to tie the ship off and lower the gang plank as the first cases come down.
This is clearly a crew of Morales' best men because they work quickly and quietly.
When nearly everything is off the ship, I pull up my rifle, sighting through the scope. "Follow the plan," I murmur, "Be precise. Counting down. Three… two… one…"
The explosion of gunfire makes nearby windows rattle and a line of bullets spray over the men on the dock and across the bow of the ship.
I can hear the roar of the engines attempting to engage and back out over the symphony of gunfire and I race twenty feet to my left, settling in behind a tree where I can scope the back of the boat.
My sniper rifle holds 20mm rounds, big enough to demolish the rear engine compartment.
Unfortunately for the captain, the engines have enough fuel engaged that it explodes, shooting flames up into the night sky.
The rest of the crew is racing off the ship, more willing to face the bullets than be burned alive.
I sight and fire repeatedly, each press of my finger on the trigger demolishing chunks of the ship, the dock, and a thicket of howling deck hands.
"Make sure you leave something for the detectives to take credit for," Dmitri reminds me, his voice crackling in my earpiece.
"It's not enough that we're giving them the bust?
" I say, "Now they want it gift-wrapped?
" I focus again, spotting one of the men racing for the closest truck.
It's Marcos, a senior Morales lieutenant.
The chickenhearted little bastard pulls the driver out of the truck, taking his place.
I shoot through the grill of the truck, disintegrating the engine and he slams his hands down on the steering wheel.
His chance of escape is gone and he knows it.
It's the little things, like his despair and futility, that make life in the Bratva so satisfying.
When most of Morales' crew are dead or nearly so, their blood is sinking into the wooden docks, our team closes in, surrounding who's left.
"Throw your guns in the water," Alexsey shouts. "Lie face down. We don't intend to kill any more of you unless you push it."
Dmitri cracks open one of the crates. It's filled with dozens of bundles of tightly packaged yellowish white powder.
Pulling my stiletto out of my boot, I split open a package.
Artem, one of our best chemists, steps up licking his pinky and scooping up a bit of the powder, sniffing it, and then touching it to the tip of his tongue.
"Not bad," Artem admits. "This is a clean product. I'm surprised that Morales is carrying it." He's trying to stay professional, but he's distracted, his gaze darting around the bloody dock. Our chemists don't get out much.
"Oh it'll be cut with everything from baby laxative to horse tranquilizers by the time their street crew has it," I say. "Ivan, check the crates for tracking devices and then load them into our trucks. Leave about twenty-five percent of the cargo for the police bust."
Marcos tries to struggle loose from Alexsey's grip. "What the fuck?" he says incredulously. "You're turning us over to those podunk pendejo's? We'll be a fucking laughingstock. The Capo will be so pissed, he won't bail us out!"
"Oh, you're not getting arrested," Dmitri says, giving him a slap on the back of his head.
"See?" I say happily, "Good news, eh? You gotta be more positive. There's always a bright ray of sunshine."
Marcos does not look like he thinks this is good news, and he would be correct.
Looking over the surviving crew, I find another one of their lieutenants, a wily fuck named Diego. He's easy to recognize, his face is etched by a jagged scar from his left eyebrow to his chin. "Take him, too," I say to Ivan and he nods, and his team loads both men in the truck.
"Are we all set?" Alexsey asks me. "Everyone happy?"
"It's your operation too, brother." I slap him on the shoulder. "Are we done?"
"We're good." He nods at Dmitri. "Nice of you to join the working class."
"I appreciate your gracious invitation," Dimitri says. "Roman, will you contact the detectives so they can pick up where we left off?"
"They're already waiting," I say, texting Detective Connor.
Our people and the stolen cargo are already gone when Connor and Michaels show up with a dozen police officers from the local precinct.
Connor calls me. "What the hell did you leave me with, Roman? I was in a firefight in Fallujah that was cleaner than this!"
Admittedly, what we left for the police isn't pretty.
There's still haze lingering from the gunfire and The Reina Oscura is listing heavily to the left, taking on water rapidly from the fist-sized holes I'd shot into the engine compartment.
Morales' crew is a bloody collection of corpses, and two of the crates were shot open, spilling hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of cocaine on the cracked cement.
"Well, now you're just hurting my feelings," I pout. Alexsey smothers a laugh as he wipes blood spray off his cheek and his hands.
"How the hell are we going to explain the mountains of military-grade bullet casings?" Connor shouts.
"The boat crew turned against the dock workers. Everybody got greedy," I shrug. "Why are you whining to me? You're getting a nice photo in the New York Times, standing in front of a big fucking pile of coke. You're making the city safer, Detective Connor. You're my hero."
There's a round of thumping and muffled yelling from our cartel guests in the trunk before Dmitri slams his gun against the rear seat divider, telling them to shut the fuck up.
"I'm looking forward to a round with Diego and Marcus tonight," I say happily. "You two want to join me?"
"I'm feeling inspired by our familial violence," Alexsey says. "I'm going to paint."
"This is where being a husband and a father take precedence," Dmitri says a little sadly. He perks up. "If they're still alive tomorrow, I'd be delighted to join you."
"Always so polite, Pahkan Junior," I say deferentially. I know the title infuriates him.
"Remember that you're facing a lifetime of working with me, Sovietnik Junior," he warns, and it feels like a fist is gripping my heart. Paperwork. A lifetime of paperwork and managing the interests of the Morozov Bratva.
Fucking duty, and honor.
***
Pakhan - the head of a Russian Bratva
Sovietnik - the second in command, acts as an advisor and keeps in communication with the lower branches of the organization.