19. Zaria #2
The words send heat through my chest because he's right. Greer isn't some civilian who stumbled into my world by accident. He's trained, strategic, fully integrated into my operations. Treating him like he needs to be kept safe is insulting to both of us.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
"They hit three operational sites and one civilian-facing business," he says immediately.
"That pattern tells us what Chisom values—disrupting your cash flow and public reputation.
The next logical target is either another high-value product location or something that directly connects to your father's legacy. "
"The community center," Cain says suddenly. "Your dad's gym."
My father opened a boxing gym fifteen years ago in the heart of Bennett territory.
It's where he trained local kids, gave them somewhere safe to go, built loyalty through genuine community investment.
It's not operational—no money changes hands there, no product moves through it—but it's symbolic.
Every person in my neighborhood knows Malcolm Bennett built that gym to give back.
"If Chisom wants to destroy your father's legacy," Greer continues, "hitting that gym would be the perfect psychological blow. It says you can't even protect the good things Malcolm built, that you're not worthy of his name or his territory."
"He's right." Cain pulls out his phone. "I'll get people there now, set up?—"
"No." I grab his wrist. "If we suddenly flood the gym with security, whoever's feeding Okafor information will tell him we're expecting a hit. He'll change targets or wait us out."
"So what's your play?" Cain challenges.
I look at Greer, an idea forming. "How fast can you pull together everything we know about Okafor's operations? Distribution routes, known associates, property holdings, anything in our files?"
"Two hours, maybe three." His mind is already working. "You want to find a vulnerability."
"I want to hit him back." The rage that's been building since Cain's first call crystallizes into cold determination.
"He thinks I'm weak, that I'll scramble to defend what's mine while he systematically destroys everything.
Instead, we're going to show him exactly what Malcolm Bennett's daughter is capable of. "
Cain's grin is vicious. "Now you're talking."
"We protect the gym," I continue, "but quietly. Cain, you and two others watch from a distance. When Okafor's crew shows up—and they will—you document everything. Faces, vehicles, how many people. Don't engage unless civilians are at risk. I want intelligence."
"And while they're busy at the gym?" Greer's already following my logic.
"We're hitting one of their operations. Something that hurts. Something that makes Chisom understand that destroying my territory comes with consequences." I meet his eyes. "Can you find me a target?"
"Absolutely." His voice holds dark promise. "Give me access to your files and three hours. I'll find you something."
We pile into my car, leaving Cain to coordinate protection for the gym. The drive back to my apartment feels charged with purpose instead of panic. Greer pulls out his phone, already texting someone—probably Hayes, asking for additional intel on Okafor's operations.
The sky is starting to lighten when we reach my loft. Greer goes straight to my desk, firing up the laptop while I make coffee strong enough to strip paint.
"Tell me what you have on Okafor," he says.
I settle beside him with the files Cain and I have been keeping. Property records, known associates, shipping manifests we've intercepted, surveillance photos from when they started testing our borders six months ago.
Greer absorbs information like a machine, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he cross-references everything against public records, shipping databases, corporate filings.
"He's using shell companies," Greer mutters.
"Three layers deep, but they all connect back to a warehouse in Pennsylvania.
Look—" He pulls up incorporation documents.
"Chisom filed papers for 'Liberty Logistics' two years ago.
That company owns 'Keystone Shipping,' which leases this warehouse space near the border. "
"So?"
"So Liberty Logistics just filed for a massive insurance policy. Twenty million dollars worth of coverage for 'agricultural equipment.'" His eyes meet mine. "Nobody insures agricultural equipment for twenty million unless it's very specialized or very illegal."
"He's stockpiling product," I realize. "Somewhere he thinks we can't touch."
"Pennsylvania is outside your territory." Greer keeps scrolling through records. "Far enough that your usual contacts wouldn't have eyes on it. He probably figured you'd never look that far out."
"How much product are we talking?"
"Based on the insurance value and typical street prices?" He does quick mental math. "Probably five hundred kilos minimum. Maybe more. That's his war chest—what he's planning to use to flood your territory after he destroys your operations."
The scope of it makes my jaw clench. This isn't just opportunistic expansion. Chisom has been planning this assault for years, building up resources, waiting for the perfect moment.
"Can we get to it?" I ask.
Greer's smile is sharp and dangerous. "I can get you the exact location, security details, patrol schedules—everything you need. Give me another hour."
I watch him work, coffee cooling in my hand, and something fierce swells in my chest. This is what Greer brings to my world—not just muscle or violence, but genuine strategic value.
His analytical mind taking criminal operations and treating them like corporate logistics problems, finding vulnerabilities my crew would never spot.
He's beautiful like this. Focused and dangerous, using his intelligence as a weapon.
My phone buzzes. Vaughn.
"We got everyone out of Hillside before cops could grab them," he reports. "But boss—they're saying this is gang warfare. Multiple agencies are getting involved. DEA might start sniffing around."
"Let them sniff." I keep my voice cold. "Make sure our people lawyer up if anyone gets picked up. Use Cohen—he's discreet."
After we hang up, Greer glances at me. "DEA involvement is bad."
"DEA involvement is expected when automatic weapons get used in residential areas." I drain the last of my coffee. "We'll handle it."
"By which you mean your father has federal judges in his pocket who'll make problems disappear."
"You have a problem with that?"
"No." His eyes return to the screen. "Just making sure I understand all the pieces in play."