I nod. “They also have laundering routes through fishing boats and shipping companies.”
Rex turns to me. “The Torngat Wraiths are isolated and fiercely territorial, Alder…”
“Which is perfect,” I reply.
He arches an eyebrow and shakes his head, but I stop him before he can say anything else.
“Newfoundland isbuiltfor this. They’re isolated from the rest of Canada, and the only land access is a ferry from Nova Scotia. The Wraiths built their entire business on keeping others out, with protection rackets, extortion, and small arms deals. They have rugged terrain, hard-to-access land, secure storage, and enough manpower to hold it all. Which is perfect for warehousing and discreet shipments.”
Rex nods slowly. “There will be a shootout just to get in.”
I shrug. “That’s fine.”
“So what’s in it for them?” Boot asks. “Why would they do this with us if they already have their own operations? We’ve never worked with them before… why join now?”
“They’re notjoiningus,” I say. “We all remain independent, and we all keep our own things going. But we share high-end car flows, keep drugs out, and combine regional power to shut out the Dominion Sons. Because if the Sons run us into the ground… they’re next. And they know this.”
A heavy silence falls over the table again, but I don’t give anyone the chance to object.
“The Basin Kings bring contacts and infrastructure,” I continue. “We become the auction home base and primary warehouse, and we provide the transport fleet. We move from single-site events to a rotating circuit between provinces, so RCMP has a harder time tracking us. Buyers see a controlled, professional network and feel safe bidding big. And Newfoundland, being so remote, will appeal to clients looking for absolute discretion.”
Kurt lifts a hand and thoughtfully rubs his chin. “With the Black Tides, we could launder all inventory inside Atlantic Canada,” he says slowly. “We can legalize cars and make them disappear as they arrive… then move them across the country to buyers, untraceable…”
My heart thumps as I nod.
“The Basin Kings, the Torngat Wraiths, and the Black Tides would control all ports and ferries, denying the Dominion Sons and their product any entry,” I say, taking in the intrigued looks aimed my way. “If the Sons can’t nail down reliable routes, they can’t move into Atlantic Canada.”
Mac smiles at me from across the table. “We make Atlantic Canada unstable, unprofitable, and too high-risk to invest in. While we expand.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
I look around the table, taking in the faces of my brothers, and seeing the hope in their eyes. Hope that hasn’t found its way into this room in a long time.
Kurt leans forward. “A vote to move ahead and seek collaboration with the Torngat Wraiths and the Black Tides.” He looks at me, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Aye.”
And one by one, the vote travels around the table, each one my brothers voicing their agreement.
Kurt lifts the gavel and brings it down on the table. “Looks like we're paying our neighbours a visit.”
FORTY-ONE
I pickup splintered pieces of wood from the floor and toss them in the garbage bin as the sound of footsteps on broken glass fills the quiet space. Caz moves around the room, uprighting chairs and setting things back in place one stiff movement at a time, while Maple keeps close to the wall, gently sweeping along the baseboard where the mugshots were hung. Now, most of them lie on the floor in shattered frames.
She bends to pick one up, and I see Alder’s face in her hands staring back at her. I step closer as she stares down at it for a moment, and she looks like she’s going to either throw it against the wall or break down crying.
Or both.
“Fucking idiot,” she mumbles, then sniffs.
But she doesn’t let it go. She keeps it in her hands as she starts to gather the others, and I kneel to help her. Kurt, Trip, Rex, Mac, and everyone else stare out at us from shattered glass and wood pieces, which we shove aside so we can create a pile of the photos.
Maple takes one more look at Alder’s photo in her hands, of him against a concrete wall holding a placard with his name, and a string of numbers under it. His eyes are bright and taunting,and his lips are lifted on one side, just enough to show that he enjoyed every second of whatever he did to end up there.
“I think the only reason we haven’t buried him yet is just dumb fucking luck,” she mutters as she places the photo on top of the pile with more care than I expected.
I watch the way she swallows thickly and sniffles again, like this is eating her up inside.
“There seems to be a lot of effort put into hating him,” I say softly.
