Page 51 of Bratva Prisoner
“No more hiding behind assumptions and fear. If you’re going to judge my world, you should at least see what it actually looks like.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re driving through the industrial district toward the docks. The morning fog settles over the harbor, giving everything a dreamlike quality around the cranes and shipping containers that are scattered everywhere.
“This is one of our legitimate operations,” I explain as we pull through the gates of Barkov Maritime. “We handle cargo for dozens of companies; everything from electronics to textiles to automotive parts.”
“And the illegitimate stuff?”
“Mixed in with the legitimate aspects. Hidden in plain sight.”
The warehouse is filled to the brim with forklifts moving pallets, employees calling out instructions in three different languages, and the constant background racket of productivity. I lead Alyssa through it all, pointing out the various processes and explaining how everything flows together as we go.
“How do you keep track of it all?” she asks as she watches a team of men load containers onto a truck.
“Computer systems mostly, but also relationships. Everyone here has worked for my family for years. They know what questions not to ask.”
“Doesn’t that make you nervous? Having so many people who could potentially betray you?”
“Loyalty is earned, not demanded. We pay well, treat our people fairly, and take care of their families. In return, they keep our secrets.”
A supervisor approaches us, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Barkov, we’ve got a problem with container seven-forty-three. The rigging is tangled up top, and the whole line is backed up.”
I follow his pointed finger to where a massive shipping container hangs suspended from a crane, swaying as the men below debate solutions. The loading dock has ground to a halt while everyone waits for the problem to be resolved.
“How long to get someone up there?” I ask.
“Hard to say. We have to bring in the safety equipment, get someone certified for heights…”
“That’s too long,” Alyssa interjects as she eyes the suspended container. “Someone could get hurt. What exactly is tangled?”
The supervisor blinks at her like he’s not sure whether to be offended or amused. “The guide ropes, miss. They’ve wound around the lifting cables, and the whole thing is locked up tight.”
“So someone just needs to climb up there and untangle them?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I can do that.”
Both the supervisor and I turn to stare at her. She’s already pulling off her jacket and rolling up her sleeves like she’s preparing for manual labor.
“Absolutely not,” I state right away.
“Why not? I’ve done plenty of rock climbing, and this isn’t even that high. Besides, I’m probably lighter than whoever you’d normally send up there.”
“Alyssa, this isn’t a game. If you fall—”
“I won’t fall.” She’s already walking toward the container when she cuts me off. “Trust me.”
The supervisor looks at me with his eyes wide as saucers. “Sir, I really don’t think—”
“Let her try,” I hear myself saying, though every instinct I possess is screaming in protest.
What follows is the most nerve-wracking ten minutes of my life. Alyssa scales the side of the shipping container as if she were born to do it. When she reaches the top, she inspects the tangled rigging, tugging here and there.
“I can see the problem,” she calls down. “Give me two minutes.”
Those two minutes stretch into eternity. I watch her work—untangling knots, repositioning cables, solving the puzzlethat had my experienced crew stumped. When the container finally settles into its proper position, a cheer goes up from the assembled workers.
“How’s she going to get down?” the supervisor asks, echoing my own growing concern.
