Free Good Intentions (Samogon 1) by Eric Gilliland

been employed for that capacity. The current state of affairs among the cartels suggests that Damon Ochoa should be safe while attending college in America. Advise grab-teams to stand down and abort.

-10 -
    Saratov, Russia
     
    The air below deck was stale. The smell of fish, motor oil, and body order filled the Ukrainian’s nostrils. After years operating the foul ports of the Volga and the ships that navigated the river, the stench no longer bothered him as it did when he was a young man.
    He walked through the gangways of the Antillian, making his way topside—the Lithuanian cargo ship he was traveling on was nearing port.
    The five hundred miles from the Baltic Sea, down through Moscow, and into Saratov was an uneventful trip for the Rimsky-family enforcer. Three miles out, Aleksandr Sergeyevich watched from the bridge as tug boats tied with the Antillian and another boat pulled along her port side to deliver the harbor pilot who would navigate the cargo ship into port.
    Aleksandr sipped the strong black coffee as he eyed the midships’ monitors. He watched as the harbor pilot climbed the gangplank. Four young men emerged from the boat and followed behind the harbor pilot. Hmm … Wasn’t expecting them to board until we docked , Aleksandr said to himself.
    He sat his coffee cup down, patted the ships’ captain on the shoulder, and spoke to him in Russian. The captain acknowledged his old friend’s remark with a sinister grin. Aleksandr exited the bridge on the starboard side and made his way aft across the deck of the ship. He stayed in the shadows of the shipment containers, making his way to the yellow container marked 3K331.
    A crescent moon hung high in the sky. Seagulls hovered over the deck of the ship as a light breeze blew across the Volga. There were few crew on deck. Almost all of them were below working or in their quarters sleeping. The Ukrainian found his employer’s containers, then hid from the young thieves who were on their way.
    Anyone shipping goods from St. Petersburg to Saratov and wanting protection for their shipment had to deal with the Pistilli crime family. The Pistilli mob and their thieves guild were too audacious operating in Saratov. Their attitude that they could steal anything from anyone at any time made them reckless. Maybe they refused to believe they were at war with the Yongavich crime family and Kazan gypsies. Maybe they didn’t understand you don’t charge other crime families protection for shipments and then rip them off in transient—at least not the Rimskys.
    Young Kven Pistilli’s boldness was about to be his undoing.
    The four thieves split into pairs to search for the container. Aleksandr maneuvered along the starboard side of the ship. He eyed one pair of thieves spotlighting the numbers on the containers. Where the other pair disappeared to he didn’t yet know, but he knew where they would be soon enough. He circled around, positioning himself ahead of the two thieves and waited for them to exit the column of containers they were currently searching.
    Aleksandr secured the suppressor to the end of his Walther PPK pistol. It was loaded with subsonic .22 caliber hollow-points—his preferred choice for silent hits. As the two thieves, both barely twenty years of age, walked up to the next set of containers, the fifty-something Ukrainian stayed in their shadows and moved in behind them. Fifteen feet ... ten feet. The PPK raised level. Pop-pop, pop-pop. Two bullets each, quick and silent.
    Swiftly, he policed his brass and made his way back to the yellow container, leaving the bodies where they fell. They were mere children who would never get to enjoy life again, but he didn’t care. As he neared his boss’ containers, he could hear one of the remaining thieves calling out to the other that he had found the container. Aleksandr waited  ...
    The young Pistilli spotlighted the container and smiled. Secured inside among construction equipment were one thousand