“Far Reach Associates, Cynthia speaking.”

“This is Grant Cordaro.  Could you ring up my father?  His cell phone’s off.”

“Sure thing, please hold.”

Standing broken-nosed at a pay phone on the cold night streets of London was not Grant’s idea of a fun Saturday night.  Normally he’d be out at Grossman’s Tavern, downing rum and picking up as many girls as possible.  He never thought this day would come.  All the training and preparation was just peripheral to him.  He did it to please his father, but never considered the possibility of using it in reality.  The faces of those 16 people still pressed firmly against his eyelids.  He cursed. 

Why the hell did Victor have to run?  They’re going to kill him.  They’re going to kill me for Christ sakes.  And where the hell is dad?  He should’ve seen this coming long before we were ever involved.

“Mr. Cordaro?  I’m sorry, but your father is out for the night.  Is there anything else I can help you with?”


“No that’s fine.  You should go home, Cynthia.  As co-executive, I’m shutting the place down.  You can pass along the message.”

“Thank you Mr. Cordaro, I will do that.”

“Good night.”


There was nothing to do but wait.  Grant slumped into a bench and leaned his head back.  Most of the bleeding had stopped, but his face still felt like hell.  

Damnit Victor.  

His younger brother had always been the impulsive one.  “Always filled with emotion and gusto,” their father would say.  He thought it worked well in tandem with Grant’s logic and decisiveness, but Grant thought otherwise.  He believed Victor’s passion too often led him astray and into the path of danger.  

He doesn’t deserve to be an executive of dad’s company.  He should’ve gone off to college and partied his ass off instead.  I’m the only one who ever gets shit done around here.  

While Grant did like to have his own fair share of partying, he never let it interfere with his job.  Since he was a child, Grant knew he would one day be the leading force behind Far Reach Weaponry.  He was destined to succeed his father.  But now that the mobsters were involved, it was uncertain whether the company would even survive.  It was uncertain whether anyone would survive.  Grant was awakened from his thoughts by a buzz in his pocket.  

Claus Cordaro



“22 Chancery Boulevard...” 

Sam Vancouver sighed as he made another turn through the slums of East End.  The words of the raspy-voiced terrorist still played through his mind.  He hoped to God this was just a prank being pulled on him by some unruly school boys.  But something inside told him it wasn’t.  Deep down, he knew exactly what was happening.  His little stint with the Cordaro’s had not been overlooked, at least not by the eyes of the criminal underworld.  

“You do a friend a favor, and what do you get? Some serious bull shit.”

Sam pulled into a gravel driveway that extended under a thick canopy of oak and elm trees.  The gravel transitioned into a dirt road with stones at either side.  It was well-kept despite the lack of pavement.  After a lengthy crawl through the dark clutches of leaves and branches, Sam arrived in front of a sizable wooden cabin.  He parked, exhaled, and killed the ignition.  A dim orange light emanated from the cabin, and he could make out a figure moving to and fro inside.  There was a knock on the passenger-side window; Sam yelped.

“Don’t be a baby.  Just get outa the car and come on inside.  We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

A tall, beefy man stood outside with a tommy gun slung over his shoulder.  He wore a heavy-looking vest and shades, a half-smoked cigar hanging out of his mouth.  Sam tenderly stepped out of the car and felt for his own gun under his shirt.  

“Don’t do anything hasty.  There’s more of us than there are bullets in your clip.  After you.”

The burly man prodded Sam towards the cabin.  They stopped on the porch and were searched by two guards.  Sam watched nervously as they took his gun and placed it in a metal crate.

“You’ll get it back when you’re done,” the skinny man said, poking Sam’s back with the barrel of the tommy gun.  A familiar sleek voice sounded from inside as they stepped over the threshold. 

“It’s been a while, Sammy.  Come, take a seat by the fire.”

The End

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