92

Gregory
Riker Corgan is sweating as he shakes my hand. “I’d say you overpaid, but, uh-” He clears his throat. Corgan’s a heavyset man, bald, middle-aged, wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants. “I suspect you already know.”
“Consider the excess a friendly gesture. I’m aware of the risk you’re taking by selling to me.” I walk with him toward the conference room door. We’re in a nondescript office I rented right in downtown. Bottles of water gleam in the middle of the table. I have the entire twenty-first floor, although only two rooms are furnished. “Do you need anything else?”
“A drink,” he says, not smiling. “Something strong. And a plane ticket to Mexico.”
“I could help with both, but I suspect you have them well in hand.”
Corgan chuckles as I escort him to the elevators. We pass empty space for cubicles, empty offices, empty halls. “Can I offer some advice?” he asks, and he doesn’t look like he cares whether I agree or not. I definitely don’t give a damn what he has to say. He goes on anyway. “Paul Debarcio’s not the kind of man to take any of this lightly. The Russian’s got an iron fist. You know what I’m saying?”
“I’m aware of the Debarcio organization’s disposition.” Violence and fear first. Those methods have their place-but a real leader has more tools than just a hammer.
“Sure, sure, you would.” Corgan rubs the top of his head. “I just mean, uh, ah, there are employees at all my dispensaries-”
I stop walking and force him to stop as well. “You have my word that I won’t let anything bad happen to anyone under my employ.”
I don’t add: that would be very bad for business.
He looks somewhat relieved. “Good. That’s good. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt, you know? When two elephants fight, flies tend to get crushed, you know what I mean?”
“Your people are mine now, and I treat my employees well.”
We make more small talk, shake hands when the elevator arrives, and I watch as the doors slide shut. I doubt I’ll ever see Riker Corgan again-he seems smart enough to run far, far away from here-though I almost feel bad for him.
“Now you’re in the game for real.” My top lieutenant, Sean McTafferty, watches me from the door back into the main office space. “He just sold you, what, the fourth largest dispensary chain on the West Coast?”
“Third,” I correct with a shrug. “And it’s only a start.”
“Paul’s going to be livid.” Sean checks his nails. He’s older, in his mid-forties, with reddish-brown hair beginning to turn gray at the edges and a grizzled, weather-beaten face. Generally, I work alone, but I’ll need a real army if I’m going to take on Paul, which includes bringing out experienced soldiers from the home city. Sean’s one of the best.
“That’s the idea.” I turn toward the windows. “I need him to make the first move. I suspect now he won’t be able to help himself.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll keep on buying up every small dispensary business until I’m too entrenched to stop. It helps that I’m working with Callahan money now, which means it’s essentially unlimited. From there, I’ll use the contacts my wife can provide to start building my marijuana growing empire. In a few years, I’ll take down Paul the legal way, by stealing all his customers.”
“You sure about that?” Sean doesn’t look convinced, but he’s a soldier, not a businessman.
“I can afford to take losses on all my businesses, thanks to the Callahan fortune. I’ll undercut him until he’s squeezed out of the industry, then I’ll reap enormous profits once I’m the only man left standing.”
“Ah, yes, the Uber theory.” Sean taps a finger against his lips. “Heard a podcast about them. Sorry, are they profitable yet?”
“I’m more like Amazon. Big and inevitable.”
He shrugs, grinning. I keep looking out the window, thinking about poor Riker Corgan. As the first man to sell to me, he’s painting a target right on his chest, one that I hope Paul is smart enough to ignore. Corgan’s not the real enemy. Though men like Paul can’t always tell the difference.
As I turn back to the office, the door to the emergency stairwell bangs open. One of my soldiers stands at the top of the staircase, hands on his knees, sweating and breathing hard. The kid’s gasping like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest. Sean looks bewildered as he walks over to the young man. “What the hell? Did you run up twenty floors?”
“Yes,” he wheezes. “I think I’m going to die.”
Sean steers the poor bastard to a chair. “What were you thinking?”
“There’s… a man downstairs… elevator’s full…” He groans, leaning his head back against the wall, pouring sweat. “Wanted to move.”
“Hey, don’t pass out before you tell us why this was so important you nearly killed yourself running up here.” Sean lightly slaps the soldier’s face.
“Right, he’s one of Paul’s men… he says the big boss… wants a meeting.” He sighs, slumping sideways out of the chair. Still alive, only lying on the cool tile floor.
Sean gives me a look. “Is this the move you’re waiting for?”
I shake my head, feeling unnerved. My meeting with Corgan only just finished; it’s either incredible timing or Paul is keeping closer tabs than I guessed. “No. It’s not. I didn’t expect to hear from him yet.”
“What should we do?”
I call the elevator without answering. Sean shrugs and falls into line. I glance back at the soldier as he rolls onto his back, groaning. An elevator comes after a few seconds of waiting and we ride it down to the main building lobby where a very blond man’s sitting surrounded by several of my guards. They all try to look casual as other business folks bustle through the busy office structure’s front room, but everyone keeps looking over at the very obviously dangerous group of suit-wearing thugs.
“You look like a cliche from a gangster movie,” I growl at them. “Disperse. Except you.” I stare at Paul’s man. “You have a message.”
He nods placidly. “My boss would like to set up a meeting.”
“Where and when?”
“Tomorrow at noon. There’s the Waterfront Park. Public and crowded.”
I nod once. “Acceptable.”
“He has only one demand.” The man has the good sense to look sheepish. “You have to bring Allison Adams.”
My jaw tics. I stare at the man, tempted to dig my fingers into his windpipe until he turns purple, but he’s not the one making the rules. Killing the messenger is frowned upon, and all that.
“No, I can’t do that.”
“Then I was instructed to say the meeting won’t happen.” He stands up. “I’m sorry. That’s what I was told.”
“Tell Paul I’ll consider his offer.”
He nods and hurries off. I watch him go with a sense of deep unease.
“What’s the plan?” Sean asks.
“We’ll lock the park down. I want every soldier we have within spitting distance. If Paul so much as twitches wrong, he dies.”
Killing him wouldn’t be the worst thing, but it would make my life harder. The Debarcio Bratva would go into full-on revenge mode as some other captain or lieutenant took over, and they’d leverage all their considerable power and political connections against me. I think I could win, but I’m not sure there’d be anything worthwhile left over if this war turns hot that suddenly.
“And the girl?” Sean asks. I give him a sharp look that makes him grimace. “I mean, your wife?”
“She’ll come, mainly because she’s more useful to me there than she is sitting at home.” I turn away. I don’t want him to see the deep unease I feel about putting Allison anywhere near danger. She’s much, much too precious to risk on a foolish meeting such at this, but it may be my only chance to speak with Paul directly, and I can’t pass it up.
At least I have a feeling she’ll be elated to have something to do, if only to annoy me to no end.