Chapter 4 - The Debt Collection
In Saint Jude, big construction firms like Montgomery Haulage didn't run entirely on bank credit. They ran on informal loans from men who operated in the grey spaces between the docks and the railyards—the Syndicate of the Seventh Canal.
For six years, Arthur Montgomery had borrowed heavily from a man named Mikhail Krestov, a former Baltic shipping magnate who controlled the concrete supply for three states. Arthur had used Krestov's high-interest capital to purchase his heavy machinery, promising Krestov a ten percent yield paid quarterly from city contracts.
Arthur had been able to pay Krestov because I had quietly allowed Montgomery Construction to win lucrative city tenders.
At 1:45 a.m., I stepped into the private conference room adjacent to the hospital administration suite.
Mikhail Krestov was already sitting at the long glass table, sipping black tea from a porcelain cup. He was seventy years old, with thin white hair, a scar across his left temple, and a quiet demeanor that belied the fact that he commanded four hundred armed men across the port district.
When I entered, Krestov stood up immediately, buttoning his wool coat.
"Julian," Krestov said in his thick, accented voice. "I came as soon as your message reached my residence. I heard about Clara. How is she?"
"She lost the child, Mikhail," I said, sitting down at the head of the table.
Krestov closed his eyes for two seconds, letting out a heavy, solemn sigh. He crossed his chest with a quick gesture. "May God grant her strength. And the child... peace. Who did this?"
"Arthur Montgomery and his sons," I said.
Krestov’s eyes opened slowly. The warmth in his expression vanished, replaced by an ancient, iron coldness.
"Arthur?" Krestov repeated. "He owes my syndicate fourteen million dollars, due at the end of this month."
"He doesn't have fourteen million dollars anymore, Mikhail," Victor Vance said, stepping up behind my chair with a legal binder. "His accounts were seized thirty minutes ago under federal forfeiture. His equipment is being impounded by the Maritime Commission."
Krestov looked at me, understanding the situation instantly. He didn't ask why I had destroyed Arthur's finances; he knew that if I pulled the pin on a man’s life, that man was already dead.
"If his assets are seized by the government," Krestov said softly, "my fourteen million disappears into the state treasury."
"Not if you claim his physical inventory before the federal marshals finish processing the sites at 5:00 a.m.," I said, sliding a thick stack of property deeds across the glass table.
Krestov looked down at the deeds. They were the original title deeds for Montgomery’s central supply yard, their fleet of eighty heavy transport trucks, and their private gravel quarry outside the city limits.
"These are signed by Arthur?" Krestov asked.
"They will be signed in ten minutes," Victor replied. "Arthur is currently in the hallway signing over all personal and corporate real estate to satisfy his private creditors."
Krestov picked up the papers, turning them over in his large, calloused hands. "You are giving me his entire operation for fourteen million?"
"I am giving you his operation on one condition," I said, leaning forward.
"Name it, Julian."
"You take his eight sons," I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark that even Krestov’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You put them to work in your quarry in the north. They will work twelve-hour shifts moving stone with their hands. They will receive no wages. They will live in the crew barracks behind the security fence. They will never step foot inside the city of Saint Jude again."
Krestov stared at me for five seconds, then a slow, terrible smile spread across his weathered face.
"A labor contract," Krestov murmured. "Simple. Effective. And Arthur?"
"Arthur stays here," I said. "In this city. Without his sons. Without a dollar. Without a name. I want him walking these streets every day, looking up at the buildings he used to think he owned, knowing that he sacrificed everything he built for nothing."
May you like
Krestov stood up, tucked the deeds into his coat, and offered me his hand. "It is done, my friend. By 3:00 a.m., my trucks will be at their yard. His sons will be on a bus north before the sun rises."
I shook his hand once. "Thank you, Mikhail."
