An Honestly Run Logistics Company

Late that evening, Silver Chain Logistics—SCL Company.

The company grounds relied on lightbulbs once night fell, but the scale and layout were easy enough to grasp. A three-story building flanked by three sprawling warehouses, and a wide parking lot with two trucks still parked.

The boss headed into the office while Seamus, a Union man who worked at SCL, showed Gavin and the others around.

"Those two trucks are here for maintenance. The rest are out on runs."

"How many trucks total?"

True to his old job as a driver, Drift zeroed in on the fleet. Seamus grinned.

"We're running fifteen right now."

"Damn. Just the trucks must've cost a fortune. What about the warehouses?"

"We've got more than just these. East River, Hudson River, Brooklyn too."

With businesses like these, why bother with slugger work at all? The rookies, who hadn't expected much, realized SCL was bigger than they'd imagined and whistled under their breath.

"Looks like everything he said was real after all. What else did he mention?"

"Underwear factory, metalworks, and a gambling den in the Tenderloin."

"Two newspapers too, I think."

Seeing SCL with their own eyes made it all far more believable. Just as Gavin had said, this was nowhere near some two-bit street gang.

"Protection money from LES plus the cash from all the businesses… that's a hell of a haul."

"And this is only the beginning."

Just how far did their young boss's ambition reach? The rookies felt their chests tighten with excitement—until the boss appeared at a second-floor office window and waved them up.

"Everyone, assemble!"

"Yessir."

Seamus and Gavin took the lead; the rest followed them into the office building.

Derek and Uncle Noah had delayed going home and stayed to hold the fort. The boss finished conferring with the two of them, then called the men together. On a large chalkboard he sketched the layout of the SCL building and assigned every man to the right position.

They split into four teams of three, rotating watch so the company never slept unguarded. The boss walked them through guard posts and exactly how to respond if the enemy hit—smooth, no hesitation. The rookies' faces shifted through every expression while they listened.

Once rifles and ammunition had been issued, the briefing ended. Stanis, the Polish recruit who had been the most reluctant and the most sarcastic about joining a gang, turned to Gavin.

"Boss ever serve? Or get any kind of military training?"

"Hell no. Why?"

"Because that briefing just now—troop placement, combat drills—it was ridiculous."

"Sounded fine to me."

"That's why it's ridiculous."

Lev, the Russian, cut in.

"If the boss had been the commander in the Argonne Forest, we never would have lost that supply dump so cheap. Never would have gotten surrounded either."

"Exactly. And the shooting. Kid's something else."

Gavin and the veterans just shrugged.

"That's why we follow him. Plenty more surprises coming."

Patrolling outside might warn off the timid, but it does nothing against men who've already decided to hit us. You'd just get yourself killed trying to hold the perimeter.

What the boss had chosen was not simple security—it was an ambush designed to draw the enemy deep inside.

The rookies and the rest scattered to their assigned posts, melting into every hiding place inside and outside the warehouses. The men watched every approach with no blind spots, a tight net waiting for any outsider who tried to slip through.

Night had fully settled over the SCL office. With the men posted on security, I sat talking with Uncle Derek and Uncle Noah.

"Their goal is to use the chaos of the strike to seize control of the logistics companies. Protection money is just the opening move."

Hitting their home bases head-on wasn't realistic. According to Paul Kelly, several gangs had piled into the racket, and their dens were scattered across Brooklyn, the Bronx, East Harlem—everywhere.

Uncle Noah frowned at that.

"Kieran, we can't just sit around forever waiting for them to show. There's only so long the men can keep watch…"

"They came up empty today. They'll strike within a few days. Once word gets out, do you think the other companies will keep paying protection?"

Derek nodded in agreement.

"They'll want to crush us hard and make an example."

"Exactly. A few days at most. One way or another, they'll come."

I had underestimated them. They were more impatient—and bolder—than I'd expected. Seamus, still on watch, burst in with urgent news.

"Boss! Hostiles closing in from this direction!"

"Impatient bastards. You two stay right here with your guns. Don't move."

"R-right."

Uncle Derek and Uncle Noah armed themselves with Smith & Wesson revolvers while Seamus and I slipped down to the darkened first floor. We took positions beside the door, Colt M1911s in hand, listening to the night outside.

Multiple sets of footsteps drew closer. Someone whispered in Italian. Then came the sound of something being dragged across the ground, followed by the soft gurgle of liquid pouring—and the sharp, ugly stink of kerosene filled the air.

They're going to torch the place.

Across the doorway, Seamus gripped his pistol and stared at me, eyes locked on my mouth, waiting for the order. But stepping out now would only make us bullet sponges. With the posts I'd assigned, the men had to know what was happening. Anyone with half a brain would open fire before the match ever struck—

Bang!

Bang!

Right on cue. Gunshots cracked one after another; rounds slammed into the outer walls.

"Bastardi, erano in agguato! (Damn it, they were lying in wait!)"

"Svelti, entrate dentro! (Hurry, get inside!)"

The door burst open and a knot of men charged in. Seamus and I pulled our triggers without a second's hesitation.

Bang!

Bang!

The ones who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had made it inside dropped where they stood. Outside, a panicked voice shouted:

"I—I surrender! Please don't shoot!"

One of them had been caught halfway, never quite reaching the office.

"On your knees. Hands up!"

"Empty! See? Empty hands!"

"Crawl inside like that!"

Gavin shoved the man through the doorway as if presenting a gift. On his knees he shuffled in, then froze when he saw the bodies of his friends, lips pressed white.

"Keep crawling."

He flinched at my voice and hurried forward on bloody knees until he reached me.

"Name?"

"A-Angelo."

"All right, Angelo. Who's your boss?"

Angelo's eyes darted to one of the corpses on the floor.

"H-he's already dead."

"His name."

"Roberto Faenza."

"There's someone above him, isn't there?"

"N-no. We were the ones who came here earlier today. I don't know who Roberto took orders from."

"So you were shaking down logistics companies with this many men?"

"It… it was working."

I stared into his eyes. Fear and terror swam there; it didn't look like a lie, and he clearly had nothing else useful. So—

Bang!

No more use.

Thud.

I holstered the pistol and looked up toward the second floor. Uncle Noah and Uncle Derek stood frozen, swallowing hard as they stared down at the bodies.

"Uncle Derek—call the police. Now."

"Y-yeah. Got it."

"Seamus, take the men and sweep the area for any stragglers."

Seamus headed outside. I climbed the stairs to the second floor. Uncle Noah followed in silence into the conference room.

"We stopped them, but with this many dead it's going to be noisy for a while."

Seven killed in the firefight—all Italian gangsters. Even self-defense would make the front pages.

"If we want to keep this contained, Uncle Noah, you'll need to handle the reporters carefully."

"Play up the self-defense angle?"

"No. Praise the employees who stood up to the thugs."

Uncle Noah blinked, then the corner of his mouth slowly lifted as he caught the meaning.

"You want me to lean hard on the fact that they're war veterans."

"From the public's point of view, they just got another look at their war heroes being heroic. If there's no reaction, so be it."

"Oh, there'll be a reaction. Guaranteed."

"I think so too. Kieran, you've got a real gift for this kind of thing."

Uncle Derek, back from calling the police, gave a thumbs-up in agreement.

In the meeting that followed we aligned every word for the cops and the press, then drilled it into the men.

"I was never here tonight. Stick to the script—nothing else."

"Yes, sir!"

"Handle the rest cleanly."

Before we closed, I asked one more question.

"Who fired the first shot?"

It mattered. If someone had chosen the right moment without waiting for an order, that judgment and cool head deserved praise. The man was Hans Weiss, German-born.

"I did. Was that the wrong call?"

"Opposite. Perfect timing."

Hans smirked and shrugged.

During the Great War, German immigrants living in America had been drafted like everyone else. Plenty served in U.S. uniforms, and their road had never been easy. They aimed their rifles at the Fatherland while enduring fierce anti-German hatred and constant loyalty tests. Fellow soldiers hadn't always looked at them kindly either.

German veterans welcomed nowhere—yet Hans Weiss had earned the trust of Gavin and the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rest. I could picture the kind of soldier he must have been.

"Good work, all of you. Today's bonus will be paid separately."

With that I left SCL.

It was past midnight when I got home. Hazel sat on the living-room sofa waiting for me, Roa asleep with her head in Hazel's lap.

"How'd she end up like that?"

"She asked me to clean her ears. Guess it felt too good—out like a light."

"She used to do the same with Mother."

Come to think of it, Mother was busier now than when she worked the sweatshop in the tenement basement. The more Free Your Body grew, the heavier her workload became. I was worse. Lately I slept away from home more often than not and had less time for the kids. Hazel had stepped into that empty space without being asked. She read my face instantly and smiled with her eyes.

"Nice having me around, right?"

"Not bad."

"See? I'm more useful than I look."

I carefully lifted Roa to carry her to bed. She nuzzled into my chest, lips moving in her sleep. Hazel followed, opened the door, and helped settle her under the covers. Just as we started to slip out—

"Coney Island… at this rate Roa's gonna be a grown-up… mmph…"

I looked at Hazel.

"You think that was sleep-talk?"

"Of course. What else would it be?"

"No. The timing's always too perfect."

"You're imagining things. Anyway—good night."

I eased the door shut, then paused and pressed my ear to Hazel's door.

"—Looks like we're going to Coney Island this year!"

Hazel's excited whisper, followed by Roa's soft little giggle. That was all. Circumstantial evidence only. Nowhere near enough to prove the truth behind Roa's sleep-talk.

The earliest newspaper pieces focused on the shootout itself. Gradually, however, public attention swung entirely toward the veterans. People began showering praise on the men who had come home from the wounds of war only to stand once more between ordinary citizens and danger.

That much I had more or less expected. Anyone who had watched the welcome parades for returning soldiers since March could guess how the public would react to a heroic stand. But then—

"Boss, politicians and city officials showed up at SCL in a pack today."

"Hmm?"

With the strike already turning the streets ugly, the politicians had sniffed the public mood and chosen the most efficient path. War heroes became propaganda tools; every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠layer of society began visiting SCL, and the company name spread farther and faster. The incident had simply lined up with their political calculations—or their business interests.

"I never asked for this much."

Still… I might as well use the chance to expand SCL's reach.