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Chapter 46
Ronan
There are a few dozen different businesses associated with the Hayes Group.
The field hockey supply company is our main front. It’s actually a legitimate operation that pays taxes and brings in a pretty good profit every year. Only it also helps to hide our smuggling operation.
But there are other associates. These are people that aren’t necessarily inside the Hayes Group, but they pay dues or do us favors, and in exchange we help them with whatever we can. It’s one thing to sell drugs, but any crime organization that wants to last more than a few years has to give back to their community. Otherwise, the people around them have no reason to tell the cops they don’t know anything when the police inevitably come calling.
One such place is a corner store run by a pair of Iraqi brothers. Omar is older and Karim is younger, and I’ve never seen the place without at least one of them behind the register.
“Big boss,” Omar says. He’s got graying hair and is wearing a tank top with a big gold chain. “Haven’t seen you in some time.”
“Hello, Omar, glad to see business is thriving.”
“I am glad to seeyouare thriving, big boss.” We shake hands, and Omar beams. “You run this neighborhood like a true king. What can I do for you today, big boss?”
“Listen, I need a favor. All you need to do is take a break for the next hour.”
Omar frowns and checks his watch. “Rush time coming soon, big boss.”
“I’ll watch the store for you, all right? Go somewhere and have lunch on me.” I put five hundred-dollar bills down in front of him.
He scoops them up. “I think I can afford lunch with this,” he says, giving me a sly smile. “All right, big boss, you have the store for the next hour.”
“Thank you, Omar.”
He disappears out the front door like he’s afraid I’m going to change my mind.
Niall comes in a minute later. One of the loyal cousins named Stephen is with him. The young kid gets behind the register and seems fairly at ease. “Our man here has some retail experience,” Niall explains.
“You good with the plan?” I ask the young soldier. I don’t know Stephen well, but his father’s one of the more reliable uncles.
“I’m good,” Stephen says as he pokes around at the register. “Jesus fuck, this thing is ancient.”
“You’re not really here to make sales, you know that?”
“Sure, but if a customer comes in, I might as well.” Stephen beams at me and shrugs. “Got to take care of our people, right?”
I don’t disagree with the kid. Niall and I leave the store together and post up in a nondescript truck parked across the block and slightly further up the street. It’s an old Ford with a rusty frame we borrowed from the chop shop, just to make sure none of Cormac’s people notice it.
“I feel almost bad, putting Stephen in there.” Niall cranes his neck to look back at the corner store. “I mean, this could go wrong.”
“We have everyone in position and the kid knows what he’s getting himself into. It’ll be fine.”
Niall doesn’t look happy. I don’t blame him—it’s a dangerous job in there. But I need to start trusting my people with important tasks, otherwise they won’t look at me as a worthwhile leader.
We don’t have long to stew. About ten minutes after the swap, motorcycles tear down the block, driving the wrong way. Five of them, their riders dressed in all black, park directly outside of the corner store. Two remain outside while three push through.
I send a message to the secure chat but it’s not really necessary. Niall’s out the door first and I’m following close behind as we draw our weapons and aim at the guards still left out front.
They don’t see us until it’s too late. “Oh, shit!” one shouts and reaches into his jacket, but Niall puts him down. The other tries to flee and I shoot his front tire out, sending him careening out of control and straight into a traffic pole. He hits the ground hard, tries to get up, but three of my soldiers are on him.
My people swarm out of cars, trucks, and the surrounding businesses. I’m already pushing in through the door, gun up as Niall follows close behind, and more soldiers come in behind him.
We pile inside. Three biker assholes are pointing guns at poor Stephen and shouting random orders loud enough that they don’t notice our entrance until it’s too late. Their leader turns and tries to bring his gun around, but I’m ready.
I drive my shoulder forward and slam it straight into the guy’s neck. He grunts and gags in surprise, and I grab his gun hand, wrenching it up and back until I feel his wrist pop. It goes limp and the weapon clatters to the ground.
