Free Good Intentions (Samogon 1) by Eric Gilliland Page A

American-made AR-15 assault rifles and twenty-five boxes of Semtex plastic explosives. The young Pistilli would make a hefty profit selling it all to Chechen rebels.
    “Open it,” ordered Pistilli.
    “What for? We can’t unload it yet, and we sure as hell can’t move it with two containers on top of it.”
    Pistilli looked cross at his crew member. “Open it because I told you to.”
    The young Russian pulled his bolt cutters and clipped the padlocks free from the container doors. He swung one of the doors open and together they spotlighted the inside of the container.
    Empty! Before either one could realize it was a setup and not the wrong container ... Pop-pop, pop-pop.
    Aleksandr stood atop the dead Pistilli and stared down at him as blood poured from his exploded skull. The Ukrainian slipped his pistol back into his jacket. He dragged the bodies of Pistilli and his crew into the container. "I’m too old to be dragging bodies," he said to one of the corpses.
    From inside his jacket he pulled a pair of padlocks and secured the container. Again, he policed his brass then looked at the two containers stacked above to make sure they were still secured—the real containers that held 192 barrels of American grain alcohol and more than $250,000 in untaxed profit.
    Aleksandr then made his way below deck to the sleeping quarters the captain had accommodated him with. He washed-up and gathered what few belongings he had brought with him and waited for the Antillian to dock.
    War was coming to the Rimskys for this act. Kven Pistilli was the youngest of the don’s four sons. It didn’t matter that Pistilli was snaking Rimsky shipments, the don would not let his son’s death go unanswered. The samogon wars were about to expand.

-11 -
     
    Shortly before three in the afternoon, Chris left the hotel and drove two blocks to a plaza of stores. He parked in front of Shelby’s Pizza Pub, a popular hangout for the college crowd, then walked next door to a sporting goods store. There, he bought a University of Charleston hooded sweatshirt and a ballcap. He had the Greek letters ΠΣΔ pressed on the front of the cap. Pi Sigma Delta was a large black fraternity.
    Back at his truck, Chris put the hoodie on and pulled the ballcap down on his head. Next, he walked across the main road to Campus Storage, a large self-storage business that serviced students from all the local colleges. Many students had units year-round that they used during the Christmas and summer breaks. Using a fake ID and paying cash, Chris rented a storage unit big enough to park a car in for one week. After renting the storage unit he returned to Shelby’s Pub and ditched the ballcap in the cab of his truck. No need to wear it and risk running into someone who was actually in the fraternity.
    Chris sat at a small table at the front of the pub where he could watch the truck and street through the window. While he waited for all the businesses to change shifts, he ordered a roast beef and turkey sandwich on french bread, topped with Swiss cheese, tomato, lettuce, and mayonnaise. While he ate he watched people come and go throughout the plaza. The traffic on the street flowed without incident. Nothing stood out to Chris as being unusual. He was confident no one was following him or even aware of why he was in Charleston.
    It was almost four o'clock when Chris went back to his storage unit. He backed his truck halfway into the unit and discretely unloaded the forty-two boxes of brandy, then secured the locker with his own padlock. Afterward, Chris drove around Charleston, taking side streets, pulling into businesses, circling back, and stopping in parking lots. When he was convinced he wasn’t being followed, he hurried back to Shelby’s Pub to beat the college crowd and guarantee himself the table he had next to the window.
    He took out a prepaid cell phone and called his customer. He told the gentleman that he would arrive in town around eleven the next morning,