Chương 6: The Boy from New Jersey

I had, of course, understood that there would be plenty of problems and plenty of work. What I had not expected was to become attached to the telephone receiver like it was a damn umbilical cord. Naively, I had thought competent people would handle everything themselves. Right. Of course they would. My ideas were too new, and while they knew the general direction, they still waited for my approval on every single action. The paperwork was its own circus. Sign this, reread that, approve this, sign it again.

And all of that while I still did not have a secretary, because Prescott was still searching for the perfect candidate. At that point, I would have taken Mrs. Jones from the nearest typing pool and kissed his feet for it. The reports were a separate circle of hell. I spent three hours at a time hunched over Chen's financial summaries, trying to understand what the hell was going on. Luckily, primitive things like expenses and revenue were written clearly enough.

But when Ruthman's forecasts and Kozlowski's technical reports joined her daily briefings, I developed a sudden desire to start smoking. In moments like those, it felt as if my head stood up from its long-suffering shoulders, walked to the window, climbed onto the sill, and calmly admired the city. Still, I found somewhere to bleed off the stress. In the security room, the guys and I had bolted a pull-up bar to the wall.

When things became completely unbearable, I could usually be found there, doing pull-ups until stars danced in front of my eyes. Unfortunately, it did not always help. So when the telephone rang again, I felt a sharp urge to throw it out the window. Along with the cord. Possibly along with the desk. Maybe even the entire office. But I pulled myself together. And not for nothing.

"Mr. Miller? This is James Wesley. We… we spoke a month ago. I couldn't come in back then. But if your offer still stands…" The gears in my head turned with effort. James. Which James? Then I remembered: the young man who had canceled his interview a day before the meeting. Something in his voice had caught my attention back then. A little too miserable. His voice had changed now. I was not sure it was for the better.

"Tomorrow, two in the afternoon," I said.

"Do you remember the address?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." I hung up and went to the cabinet for his file. James Wesley. Eighteen years old at present, barely out of school. When I first saw his dossier among seasoned sharks with decades of experience, economists, financiers, and managers, I was properly surprised. What was an eighteen-year-old boy doing on that list? Stern did not make mistakes. She was too professional for accidents. Which meant there was a reason. And there was. James Wesley was a prodigy.

Not in the sense that he did well in school, though he had that too, graduating with top marks. He was a genius of organization. At sixteen, he was managing the logistics of his father's business, a small trucking company in New Jersey: a dozen trucks, three dozen employees. At seventeen, he had dragged that business out of a debt pit. Restructured routes, renegotiated supplier contracts, fired three thieving drivers, found new clients.

He turned an unprofitable little outfit into a stable enterprise with real growth prospects. Then his father died. Heart attack behind the wheel of a truck. After that, he crashed into the highway barrier and died before the ambulance arrived. The business was taken by creditors. James had not yet turned eighteen, and a minor could not legally inherit. His mother should have stepped in, but after her husband's death her health collapsed badly enough that the process dragged on.

While the papers were being prepared, the creditors moved fast. The lawyers hired by the family turned out to be either incompetent or bought. In the end, the company was seized for debt, and the family was left with nothing. His mother suffered a nervous breakdown. Not just "took it badly." She broke. Depression, pills, inability to get out of bed. His younger sister Emily, twelve years old, was left in James's care. Eighteen years old. No education. No connections. No money.

The savings had been eaten by lawyers and medical bills. Just a head on his shoulders and two people he had to feed, treat, and protect. In a situation like that, most people would be the ones needing a nervous breakdown. He held. At the end of the dossier, Stern had written: "Exceptional organizational abilities. Cold mind, excellent managerial talent. Absolute loyalty to those he considers his own. Will do anything for his sister." I think that woman had slipped me his file not only because of his merits.

She simply felt sorry for him. His story was written too carefully for it to be anything else. I reread the last line, and suddenly felt something scratch at the inside of my skull. James. James Wesley. Smart, loyal, a brilliant organizer. Will do anything for family. Why did that sound so familiar? The thought turned in my head, catching on something at the very edge of memory. Something from my previous life. Comics? Movies? TV shows? Wesley. James Wesley. Shit. No. No way. That James Wesley?

Wilson Fisk's right hand. Kingpin's right hand. The man who ran the criminal empire while his boss stayed in the shadows. The man who solved problems, any problems, from bribing judges to eliminating witnesses. The only person Fisk trusted without reservation. In the show, Karen Page killed him with a shot to the head from his own pistol. In the comics, he was stronger than that and did not slide into such a stupid death. I slowly lowered the folder onto the desk and looked at the photograph.

A young face, almost boyish. Intelligent eyes behind glasses and a neat haircut. A cheap tie tied in a perfectly straight knot. Nothing threatening, unless you knew what he would become. Fisk, if I remembered the show and the comics correctly, was not Kingpin yet. He should be around twenty, maybe a bit older. Somewhere here in New York, climbing the criminal ladder. Beating people with his bare hands, gathering men under him, building the foundation of a future underground empire. Hard. Purposeful. Merciless.

But still nobody. A pawn dreaming of becoming king. And Wesley was not with him yet. And I had to say, that was manna from heaven, because the two of them together were far too dangerous. Right now, James was just a desperate boy with a sick mother and a hungry sister in his care. Standing on the edge of the abyss and looking down. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, gathering my thoughts. Marvel had come knocking at my door.

I had prepared myself for the fact that sooner or later I would run into all this shit: Stark, mutants, aliens, gods. I just had not expected the first contact to come so soon and to be so… ordinary. Not a cosmic threat, not a supervillain in a cape, but a boy from New Jersey trying to survive. And that shook me. That side of reality had come right up to my face, while I was still messing around with patents for sticky bits of paper. There was less time than I had thought. Although what else could I do?

I was already pushing myself to the limit. I did not think I had missed anything important, but "I think" was doing a lot of work in that sentence. Too many variables. After the first real profits came in, I would have to take intelligence seriously. Start gathering information. Track where anomalies surfaced, what forces even existed, and what I could gain from them. Yes. I needed to think. A lot. As if my head was not already splitting from the problems I had. All right. Back to the current situation.

Fisk would rise. With Wesley or without him, he would rise. That was the kind of man he was. But with Wesley, he would rise faster, higher, and become more dangerous. Without Wesley? Without his right hand, without the brilliant organizer who plugged the holes in his boss's weaknesses? He would have to climb longer and stumble more often. Make mistakes Wesley would never have allowed him to make. Taking such a man from Fisk at the very beginning of his path was like tearing off his arm.

And that was only if I looked at it from the point of view of opposition. If I looked at Wesley himself… I glanced at the photograph again. A diamond. Uncut, dirty, but a diamond. A man who, at eighteen, had dragged a business out of a debt pit. A man who could see a system as a whole, find weak points, and build processes. A man ready to do anything for those he considered close. People like that did not lie around on the road. And if Fisk had eventually gotten him, it meant Fisk knew how to recognize talent.

The conclusions were too obvious. I needed him. And I had to help him. Getting a man like that on my team, this early in his life, was worth a lot. But all my plans went to hell almost immediately. The next day, he did not show up. I waited until three, then until four. I called the number from the dossier. Long rings. No answer. Same thing the next day. And the third. On the fourth day, someone finally picked up.

"Hello?" A child's voice came through the receiver. Most likely the sister.

"Hello. My name is David Miller. I'm looking for James Wesley. Is he home?" A pause. Too long.

"Jimmy isn't here."

"When will he be back?" Silence. I heard her swallow. Then, quietly, almost in a whisper:"I don't know. He… he said soon. But that was three days ago." Her voice trembled on the last words. She was trying to hold herself together, but apparently she had been trying for too long. There was exhaustion in her voice. And panic.

"What's your name?"

"Emily."

"Emily, listen to me carefully." I tried to speak calmly, evenly. The way you speak to frightened children.

"Your brother was supposed to come to my office. I want to help him. But I need to know where he is." Silence on the line. Only quiet breathing. Wary. Distrustful. Smart girl. She did not rush to open up to strangers.

"What did you say your name was?" she asked at last.

"David Miller. My office is on West Forty-Seventh Street. The company is called Aegis. Did James mention it? Did he say he wanted to meet me?" A pause.

"Yes…" she finally said.

"Jimmy was very happy when you called back. He said it was a chance. That you were a serious man and you were offering work."

"That's right. I want to help. But he didn't come to the meeting and he isn't answering calls. Do you know where he might be?" Silence again. Then a sob. Quiet, strangled, as if she had covered her mouth with her hand.

"Emily?"

"He said…" Her voice broke.

"He said he'd found a way to get money. For Mom's medicine and the rent. We owe three months, and they want to evict us…" She fell silent. I waited. Did not rush her.

"He said it was the last time." Her voice became very quiet, almost a whisper.

"That after that everything would be all right. That he'd fix everything and never… never take a risk like that again." Something inside me went cold.

"Emily, when did he say that? When did he leave?"

"Three days ago. In the morning. He said he'd be back by evening. But he didn't come back, and he hasn't called once. And…" She sobbed louder.

"And before that, people came. Asking about James. They were… scary. In suits. One of them kept smiling, but his eyes were… mean." I squeezed the receiver so hard the plastic creaked.

"What did they say?"

"That James owed them. That he took money and didn't pay it back. But that isn't true! Jimmy would never… he isn't a thief! He just wanted to help Mom, he wanted…" She began crying. No longer holding back. Bitterly, like a child, choking on tears.

"Emily." My voice was firm, but soft.

"Emily, listen to me. I will find your brother. Do you hear me? I'll find him." The sobbing grew quieter. She was listening.

"But I need you to do something. Do not leave the apartment. Do not open the door to anyone. Anyone at all. Even if they say they are police. Even if they say they are from James. In one hour, my people will come to you. They will say, 'Mr. Miller sent us to help Emily.' Exactly like that, word for word. Only then do you open the door. Do you understand?"

"I-I understand…" Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"Repeat it."

"Mr. Miller sent us to help Emily," she repeated obediently through tears.

"Good girl. They will take you and your mother somewhere safe. And I will find James."

"You'll really find him?" There was so much hope in her voice that my throat tightened.

"Do you promise?" I hesitated. Of course, promising something you are not sure of is the last thing you should do. But this girl was sitting alone in an apartment with a sick mother, not knowing whether her brother was alive.

"I promise," I said.

"Hold on, Emily. Help is already coming." I hung up and sat for several seconds, staring at the wall. Found a way to get money. The last time. A classic. A desperate man goes to loan sharks, borrows at insane interest, hoping to pay it back from his first proper salary. Then the loan sharks find out he has a real job lined up and decide to collect before the client slips out of the noose. People like that need a dependent slave.

Money too, of course, but it is more profitable to squeeze a person for as long as possible. And if they knew the boy was smart, then he was a prize. Fear is not the best glue for loyalty, but it has been tested by generations and it works. In short, Wesley had crawled into crime. Most likely, this was exactly how he met Fisk in the original story. A desperate boy takes on dirty work to pay off debts, proves himself, attracts the attention of the right people. A classic story, really. In short: shit.

Big, ugly, criminal shit. If I went in to save him now, I could easily lose my head. Literally. The New York underworld did not forgive outsiders who stuck their noses into other people's business. I drummed my fingers on the desk. But the risk was definitely worth the reward. I stood, walked to the window, and hid my trembling hands behind my back. Why was it always like this? Why couldn't anything go smoothly?

I had only just started my business, taken a few small, timid steps, and immediately another problem appeared that I had to solve. The prize was too big to ignore. And the losses too high if I stayed out of it. Besides, on a purely human level, I felt sorry for the kid and his family. I picked up the internal phone.

"Jacob. In my office. Now." The Sergeant came in three minutes later. One look at my face, and he closed the door more firmly than usual.

"We have a problem?"

"Sit down." He lowered himself into the chair opposite me and placed his hands on his knees. Back straight, eyes attentive. Ready to listen.

"The situation is bad." I pushed the folder toward him.

"A man I need has been grabbed by gangsters. Loan sharks took a very young kid. He wanted to work for us. Read the résumé. At home, he has a twelve-year-old sister and a sick mother. The boy has been missing for three days." The Sergeant took the folder and opened it. He read in silence, only the muscles in his jaw moving under the skin. I saw him pause on the page with family details. Then he closed the folder and put it back on the desk.

"Do you know who has him?"

"Not the faintest idea. I wasn't planning to get involved with the underworld, and you know that." He nodded, looking at the folder.

"Boss," the Sergeant said slowly, choosing his words.

"Do I understand the situation correctly? We are going to dive into criminal business for a kid we have never even seen. And we are going in deep and bloody enough that our heads may roll too."

"You understand correctly." The Sergeant looked at me, trying to figure out what the hell was going on in my skull.

"All right," he said at last.

"Explain why. Honestly. No pretty speeches. You've started a serious business, you're investing money, building plans. And now you suddenly want to climb into this mess. Why?" I leaned back in my chair.

"Honestly? Two reasons. First, this kid is worth more than the risk. You saw his file. At seventeen, he pulled his father's business out of a debt pit. He's an organizational genius. If he works for me, it's like getting another head that thinks as fast as mine. Maybe faster."

"And the second?"

"The second…" I paused.

"I simply feel sorry for him. And for his sister too. Twelve years old, sitting at home with a sick mother, waiting for a brother who may never come back. I know this is a serious risk. But if we do it properly, we can walk away clean." He did not need to know the third reason. I had no idea how to explain that this boy would one day become the closest servant of the most dangerous villain in New York. The Sergeant gave a crooked smirk, only one corner of his mouth moving.

"You are definitely not telling me everything, boss. But that much is enough." He fell silent, and something heavy passed through his eyes.

"I had a little sister too. Long ago. In another life." I did not ask what happened to her. His face said enough. The Sergeant straightened, and the familiar steel appeared in his eyes.

"Understood. We go in." He took the folder, opened it again, and ran his gaze over the contents.

"We need full reconnaissance. Who has him, where, how many men, connections, routine. We bring in Thomas. Going in without him would be suicide."

"How much time?"

"Ideally, a day or two for proper recon." He frowned.

"But from what I understand, the kid may not last that long. We'll take the risk. Try to get it done in six or seven hours. Thomas will find the essentials, and we'll pick up the details on-site." I nodded.

"Do it. But keep one thing in mind. Just kicking in the door and shooting everyone is not an option." The Sergeant raised his eyes, and understanding flashed in them.

"Because sooner or later, someone will connect the disappearance of the loan sharks with Wesley appearing in your company."

"Correct. A war with the underworld is about as useful to me right now as a fifth leg on a dog." The Sergeant folded his arms and thought.

"Then we make sure no one even thinks of us. It should look like an internal dispute. Crime eating crime. In Harlem, that's nothing unusual."

"A frame-up?"

"A frame-up." He nodded slowly.

"Every outfit like that has competitors who dream of swallowing it. We need to find out who they're feuding with. Thomas will learn that." The Sergeant opened his notebook and started jotting down points.

"Main objectives are roughly as follows. First: extract the boy alive. Priority number one. Second: the boss must disappear. If he survives and starts digging, sooner or later he may reach us. Third: no traces. No witnesses among the hostages, no evidence, no indirect links. Fourth: point everything toward competitors." He looked up.

"The fourth point is the hardest. The frame-up has to be convincing, or at least confuse the trail enough that no one even thinks of you."

"Can you do it?"

"I can." Confident.

"Thomas will find out who the loan sharks are fighting and what their signatures are: weapons, methods, habits. The more details, the more convincing the picture. I'll give him six hours. By evening, we'll have a full dossier." I looked at him and nodded. A professional at work. What else was there to say?

"Go."

Thomas outdid himself. Seven hours later, an almost complete dossier was lying on the Sergeant's table. They had not managed to do it faster, but no one had expected miracles. I was called in once everything was ready.

"Lenny Bernstein, nickname: the Accountant," the Sergeant said, spreading documents in front of me.

"Mid-level loan shark. Works in North Harlem. Nasty type. Specializes in people with nowhere else to go: widows, debtors, the desperate. Squeezes people dry, and when there's nothing left to squeeze, sells the debts or disposes of the debtors. Sometimes into labor."

"Where is he holding him?"

"Former furniture factory. Two-story brick building, flat roof. They use the basement as a negotiation room. That's where they keep people who don't want to pay voluntarily. About twenty men total. Six to eight are on-site at any given time, the rest are out collecting."

"Connections?"

"He pays tribute to the Irish, the O'Reilly clan, but they're currently bogged down in a war with the Italians over control of the docks. They don't have time for minor vassals." The Sergeant tapped a finger against a photograph of two Black men.

"And this is our gold mine. The Dupree brothers. A gang from South Harlem, trying to expand north. They've been chewing at Lenny over clients for half a year. Small skirmishes, threats, a couple bodies on both sides. A shaky truce held together with spit and mutual fear."

"And what about them?"

"The Duprees have one distinctive trait." Thomas placed a photograph of a revolver on the table.

"They use Smith & Wesson Model 29s. Forty-four caliber. Rare gun. Powerful and loud. They're proud of it, like a calling card. Everyone in the underworld knows." He laid out a small bundle.

"Twenty shell casings, fired from their weapons. Better not ask how I got them." I smiled faintly.

"Do we have a plan?" The Sergeant unfolded a hand-drawn layout of the building.

"Two floors plus basement. Main entrance from the street, always two men there. Back door from the yard, two more. First floor has a two-man patrol, usually watching television. Stairs to the second floor, where Lenny has his office. He is usually there with one bodyguard. Basement stairs from the first-floor corridor. Iron door. One guard outside, but he often wanders off to his buddies."

"Eight total," Thomas said.

"Standard night shift," the Sergeant nodded.

"Our target is alive and moving. Sitting on the floor, hands tied. Thomas managed to see him through a small window near the ceiling. There are a couple more hostages in the basement, so we need to be careful. We'll mask the boys, put bags over the rescued people's heads, then drop them off in a decent district and let them figure the rest out." He tapped the plan with a finger.

"A frontal assault is out. A two-sided storm is possible, but too noisy. We'll do it cleaner. Two teams. First creates a diversion: noise at the back door, simulates an attack. Loud, bright, scary. Let them think it's a serious hit from the Duprees." The Sergeant looked at Thomas.

"What's visibility like at the back door?"

"Bad. Dead end. Walls on three sides. One lamp, barely working. If you approach along the wall, they won't notice until the last second."

"Good." The Sergeant turned to me.

"The second team goes through the roof. While attention is fixed on the back door, they get inside fast, neutralize the guard at the basement, grab the boy and the other hostages, exit through the front. The guards there should be pulled toward the noise."

"And Lenny?"

"Sniper." The Sergeant looked at Thomas.

"What about the building across the street?"

"Abandoned warehouse. Direct line of fire to the office window. About eighty meters."

"Billy can do it," the Sergeant said with confidence.

"At that distance, he could shoot a squirrel in the eye at night, in a snowstorm, while hungover. We drop Lenny first so he doesn't run. One shot, and done."

"We leave the casing on the warehouse roof," Thomas added.

"As if the Duprees sent a sniper. Logical." The Sergeant nodded.

"If Lenny isn't in the office at the start, we switch to Plan B. One of the roof team goes up to the second floor and does it the old-fashioned way. Worse. More risk and noise. But the ending is guaranteed. Billy remains the basis of the plan. Close contact is only a backup." He looked over the fighters present.

"Questions?" Ray raised a hand.

"What exactly does the diversion team do?"

"The diversion team works loud, but does not go inside. Their job is to fix attention and make them believe the main attack is coming from that side. When the roof team exits with the hostages, they withdraw first. We meet at the rally point."

"Try to drop as many guards as possible?" The Sergeant shook his head.

"No. We need witnesses who will later tell everyone how the Duprees attacked them. Wesley and Lenny are the priorities. The rest, if possible, we leave alone."

"And if someone decides to play hero?"

"Then we remove him. No debate." The Sergeant straightened.

"Assignment is as follows. Diversion team: Eddie and Frank. You know how to create chaos and will do your best to pass for Black. Entry team: Marcus, Ray, and me. Billy takes the sniper position across the street. Thomas handles observation and communications."

"And you, boss, preferably…"

"I'll be in the van. Coordination." The Sergeant opened his mouth, clearly about to object.

"Not up for discussion," I said before he could.

"I know what you're going to say. The boss should stay safe, the boss should not take risks. But I need to see the whole picture, otherwise I'll have a nervous breakdown from not knowing what's happening. A van two blocks away is the perfect position." He was silent for a moment, but eventually nodded.

"All right. But if something goes wrong, you leave first. No arguments."

"Agreed." Midnight sharp. North Harlem. The van stood in a dark alley, two blocks from the factory. The snow had stopped, but the cold cut through to the bone. I sat in the vehicle, looking at the unfolded plan. I wore a mask, just in case. The radio hissed with static.

"Roof, this is Eye. Reporting." Thomas's voice was quiet and clear.

"Target is in place. Eight guards, as expected. Two smoking at the back door, relaxed. Client still in the basement, no changes."

"Copy, Eye. Falcon, status?" The Sergeant's voice. Commanding, precise.

"Falcon in position." Billy.

"Target in place, visibility excellent. Sitting at the desk, drinking something. Window not curtained. Conditions ideal."

"Copy. Hammer-One, Hammer-Two, readiness?"

"Hammer-One ready." Eddie.

"Hammer-Two ready." Frank. The Sergeant himself was with the roof team, now apparently checking his men.

"We begin at twelve-ten. Countdown started." I closed my eyes and ran through every stage of the operation in my head. The Sergeant had thought everything through, but there were too many variables. The guards could be more alert than we thought. Wesley might not be able to walk. One of ours could be wounded. Too little time for preparation. Ideally, an operation like this needed a week. Study the routine. Find the weak points. Rehearse every movement.

We had a few hours of reconnaissance and a plan assembled in a hurry. But there was no choice. Every day Wesley spent in that basement was a chance they would break him or recruit him.

"All posts. One minute to start. Confirm readiness."

"Eye ready."

"Falcon ready."

"Hammer-One ready."

"Hammer-Two ready."

"Roof ready." Twelve-ten.

"Begin. Falcon, act. Hammer, go." Silence. Then a shot. After it came the roar of an engine, the shriek of brakes, and the cracks of gunfire. I heard everything through the radio in fragments: commands, bursts, shouts. I sat in the dark van and clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, though that did not stop my hands from shaking.

"Hammer, diversion working! They've all turned toward the back door!"

"Roof, move, move, move!" Rustling. A scrape of metal. They were opening the hatch.

"Roof inside. Descending." Outside, another burst. Then a dull explosion. More of a pop.

"Hammer?"

"Flashbang. Let them think we have serious hardware." The twins knew their work.

"Roof, first floor clear. Moving to basement." A pause. I held my breath.

"Guard at the door neutralized. Entering." Another pause. Longer. Torturous.

"Client located. Condition…" The Sergeant's voice wavered.

"Acceptable. Other hostages secured, extracting."

"Falcon, status?"

"Target down. Clean." I exhaled.

"Hammer, withdraw. Roof, withdraw. Everyone to rally point." The next three minutes stretched for a very long time. The shots faded. The radio rasped with pieces of reports.

"Hammer withdrawing, litter left as planned."

"Roof exiting. Hostages confused."

"Falcon leaving position. Casing in place." Then footsteps outside. The rear door of the van flew open. Marcus came in first. Huge, breathing hard, weapon at the ready. Ray followed, supporting someone under the arm. James Wesley. I barely recognized him. His face was one continuous bruise. His left eye was swollen shut completely, his lip split. His shirt was brown with dried blood, his own or someone else's, impossible to tell. But he was walking by himself. And looking around with his one good eye, stunned.

"Who are you?"

"Good uncles. Sit down and don't twitch. We pulled you out." The Sergeant and the twins would leave in another car with the hostages.

"Drive," Marcus barked. The van shot forward. Half an hour later, we were in a safe apartment in the Bronx. One of three the Sergeant kept at my request, just in case. It cost almost nothing and looked like a complete hole, but an inconspicuous two-room apartment on the fifth floor was a useful thing, considering my adventures. Wesley lay on the couch. Ray treated his wounds. Antiseptic, bandages, a couple injections of painkiller.

"Nothing serious," he reported.

"Bruises, abrasions, two cracked ribs. He'll heal." Could have been worse. We were in time.

"Losses?" I asked the Sergeant.

"Zero. Eddie has a scratch on the shoulder. Ricochet. Nothing."

"Traces?"

"Forty-four caliber casings scattered everywhere. Cars were stolen from car thieves the day before the operation, plates changed. Dumped two blocks from the site. Our weapons are all clean and have never been tied to anything."

"Witnesses?" The Sergeant shook his head.

"Four guards are dead. The others ran when they realized Lenny was done. They'll tell everyone they were attacked loudly, hard, and professionally. And that forty-fours were used. The twins played Black well enough. I would have bought it." I nodded. In principle, everything had gone well. Not perfectly, but well. Too fast. Too much improvisation. If the gangs did not react impulsively and decided to investigate what happened, they would understand it was a brazen frame-up.

They would start digging and eventually find James again. That was the saddest option. But even then, they would not connect him to me. We simply hired a boy. Who he is, where he came from, we do not know. Unless they pressured him and his family… But they were now under my protection. In short, even in the worst case, there was room to maneuver. If we had had more time, we would have come up with something better. But if things went as planned, a war would begin.

A real, bloody war that would draw attention away from everything else. And when the criminal world is busy with internal disputes, it has no time for businessmen from Manhattan. In any case, we had bought time. Enough to grow and harden. The rest did not matter.

"Boss." Ray approached me.

"The kid wants to talk." I walked to the couch. Wesley looked up at me. Beaten, exhausted, but conscious. There was no fear in his eyes. Only gratitude and complete incomprehension.

"You came for me," he said hoarsely.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"You recently spoke to me on the phone." I decided not to lie.

"You scheduled a meeting and did not show. That is not how business is done." I smiled.

"Mr. Miller?" He pushed himself up on one elbow and grimaced from the pain.

"You risked your people for a stranger?"

"For now, a stranger. But you are going to come to that interview soon, aren't you?" He was silent.

"And one more thing," I added.

"You don't need to worry about your sister and mother. They are protected. They are all right." That got through to him. The armor he had built cracked, and the spring inside began to unwind.

"I owe you so much," he said at last.

"One lifetime won't be enough."

"You'll work it off. I need a smart and loyal young man. I think you'll fit." He nodded. Slowly, seriously.

"Mr. Miller…" He coughed, then winced from the pain in his ribs.

"The people who held me… they were talking about something. I don't know if it matters, but…" I tensed.

"Speak."

"They were discussing some man. A big man. They said everything would change soon. That someone had appeared in the city. Someone who would bring order. Make everyone fall in line."

"Did they say his name?"

"No." Wesley swallowed.

"Only a nickname. They called him the Big Guy." I felt a chill run down my spine. An unpleasant turn. Though not an unexpected one.

"Thank you," I said evenly.

"Rest. We'll talk more tomorrow." Wesley closed his eyes. A minute later, his breathing evened out. Either he had fallen asleep, or exhaustion and painkillers had finally knocked him out. Three days later. Wilson Fisk stood at the window and looked over nighttime Harlem. He was twenty-two years old and looked all of thirty-five. Enormous, nearly two meters tall and almost as wide in the shoulders.

His bald skull gleamed in the light of streetlamps, and his massive head sat on a neck as thick as an ordinary man's thigh. His arms were like logs, each fist the size of a child's head. The expensive suit seemed too tight, as if the fabric might burst at any moment under the pressure of the strength beneath it. Many considered him fat and clumsy. A bloated brute grown heavy on other people's money and fear. Those thoughts usually became their last.

Because under that massive body, under that deceptive shell, there were no soft folds of fat, but slabs of heavy, functional muscle built through street fights and hard labor. He moved quickly when he wanted to. Faster than a man of his size had any right to. And he hit hard enough to turn bones into splinters. But more than his body, it was his eyes that frightened people. Small, deep-set, almost drowned under the heavy brow. Cold, like a shark's.

The eyes of a man who looked at the world and saw not people, but his pieces.

"So Lenny is dead," he said in a low, rumbling voice.

"Dead," confirmed the man behind him. Thin, nervous, with a shifting gaze.

"The Duprees did it. Or someone wants us to think they did."

"Do the O'Reillys know?"

"They know. They're furious. Promise to hang the Duprees' guts on a streetlight." Fisk nodded. Slowly, thoughtfully.

"That is good."

"Good?"

"When dogs tear at each other, they do not notice the wolf." Fisk turned to his companion.

"Lenny was greedy and stupid. Men like that are not worth mourning. But the territory now left without an owner…" The thin man licked his lips nervously.

"Do you order us to take it?"

"Not yet. We wait until the O'Reillys and the Duprees bleed each other white. And then…" Fisk turned back to the window.

"Then we come and take everything. But first, find out who was kind enough to leave us such a gift."