Old Mike meticulously calculated the accounts. Including the principal and 30% interest, the total exceeded $3,800—a substantial sum.
"It's no big deal; it's all on credit," Hardy remarked casually as he signed off.
Back at Bill's place, now serving as their headquarters, the crew gathered in the living room, getting familiar with their firearms. Seeing their enthusiasm and the number of guns, Hardy mused that it would almost be a waste not to put them to some illicit use—like a bank heist.
But, of course, robbing a bank was off the table. There were far smarter ways to make money without attracting the attention of law enforcement.
"Alright, folks, let's talk about our next move," Hardy announced.
All eyes turned to him. The crew hadn't come to Los Angeles for a quiet life; they knew a gang war was brewing. But none of them flinched—they were all seasoned veterans, ready for a fight, with the prospect of action lighting a spark in their eyes.
"I mentioned before that tensions are high between the Austrian gang and several other factions in LA, including the Irish, Spanish, and Mexican gangs. We need more intel on these groups."
"You're all new faces in town, so it'll be easier for you to gather information without raising suspicion. Henry and Matthew, you'll focus on the Irish. Neil and Leo, you're on the Spanish."
Henry, Matthew, Neil, and Leo nodded in agreement.
"Sean and Ryder, keep handling our day-to-day operations. Richard and Kerry, stay sharp and be ready to counter any surprise attacks."
Everyone acknowledged their roles without hesitation.
After considering the situation, Hardy called Big Ivan and instructed him to keep tabs on the Mexican and Polish gangs, along with any others that might pose a threat.
Big Ivan promised to dig deep and report back with whatever he found.
The next morning, after a quick briefing, the team dispersed. Hardy, Sean, and Ryder took a truck out for deliveries, while Richard and Kerry followed behind in Bill's Ford, prepared for any unexpected trouble. The Ford's trunk was packed with an arsenal, just in case.
The days passed quietly—almost too quietly—giving the illusion that all was calm in Los Angeles. But that calm was shattered a week later.
"Blare—blare—"
A loud horn echoed as a massive container ship docked at the Port of Los Angeles.
As soon as the ship pulled in, a fleet of cars arrived, spilling out dozens of customs officers and police.
"Search the ship!" ordered a supervisor.
Customs officials boarded, opening a container filled with wooden crates. Inside, they found bottles of red wine, packed in straw.
"Chief, it's French wine," a subordinate reported.
The supervisor inspected the contents and nodded. "Seems our informant was right. Confiscate it and conduct a full inspection."
The team quickly got to work.
They moved the crates to a warehouse at the port, stacking them high. Upon closer inspection, the shipment contained various high-end French wines: Mouton, Latour, Petrus, Margaux, and several other premium brands.
Stolen story; please report.
In total, there were 430 crates, holding over 2,500 bottles.
"Chief, the count's complete. All French wine, valued at more than $250,000. The customs paperwork listed this shipment as toys and fishing gear. Clearly, the goods don't match the documents."
According to customs duties, toys and fishing gear were tax-exempt.
However, these smuggled wines would incur import duties exceeding 80%.
In total, the shipment was worth over $450,000.
"What did the freighter's captain say?" asked the supervisor.
"He claims he knows nothing about it."
The supervisor sneered. "Detain him for now. Impound the shipment and report it to higher authorities."
News of the confiscated shipment quickly reached Fred, leader of the Austrian gang.
When Fred heard that the wine had been seized, he nearly smashed his phone in fury.
That was $250,000 worth of product.
With a street value of over $450,000.
He was convinced that rival gangs had orchestrated this; otherwise, customs wouldn't have been tipped off so precisely, intercepting the shipment before it even reached the port.
This was a massive loss.
Fred thought for a moment, then dialed another number, waiting as the line rang.
He felt tense. If this didn't go well, he wasn't sure how his superiors would react.
Finally, a deep voice answered.
"Who is this?"
Fred swallowed. "Mr. Siegel, it's Fred."
"What's going on, Fred?"
Fred carefully explained the situation with the seized wine shipment. When he finished, an angry voice exploded from the other end.
"Fred, you've disappointed me. Your actions are weak. All I've seen from you lately is hesitation. Now, I want you to retaliate. Hit them back."
"I'll work on smoothing things over with customs; maybe we can recover some of the goods, but it's going to cost us," Fred muttered, lowering his voice, not daring to argue.
After the call, Fred clenched his fists. He knew his boss was desperate for money and had already siphoned funds from their operations. The boss had warned him to be more aggressive in making money, and now, after this screw-up, it was no wonder he was furious.
Fred called in his second-in-command, Allen Payne.
"Allen, customs seized our shipment. Boss Siegel is livid and wants us to retaliate. What's your plan?"
Allen pondered for a moment.
"First, mobilize the strike team and hit back at the Irish. Second, since our regular business is suffering, increase commission rates to motivate our people. Third, encourage more freelance jobs. Let's adjust the profit split from 40/60 to 30/70 in favor of the gang."
Retaliation was inevitable—they needed to hit the Irish hard to keep them in check.
With regular operations under strain, increasing the cut would incentivize better performance.
As for freelance jobs, those could include anything from running gambling dens, loan sharking, controlling bars and brothels, to theft, robbery, kidnapping, and extortion—profitable, if risky, ventures.
Previously, the gang took 40% of profits from freelance jobs, leaving 60% for the members. Payne suggested adjusting the split to 30/70, believing it would further motivate their men.
"Alright, that's the plan. Call all the lieutenants and area leaders for a meeting this afternoon to assign tasks," Fred ordered.
Hardy received the summons and made his way to the headquarters for the meeting.
In the conference room, Fred sat at the head of the table with Allen Payne beside him. Around them were more than twenty lieutenants.
Hardy recognized a few faces—warehouse managers and district bosses—but many were unfamiliar, like the casino manager, smuggling coordinator, and loan sharking overseer. Each of them ran different operations and rarely crossed paths.
Many of them were seeing Hardy for the first time and eyed him with curiosity.
Fred opened the meeting. "We've hit a rough patch lately. The Irish and other gangs have banded together against us. Our bars, nightclubs, casinos, and delivery routes have been under attack, causing us significant losses."
"Today, customs intercepted a container of French wine we shipped in. No need to guess who's responsible—it's obvious our rivals tipped them off. This has cost us dearly."
The room fell silent. Everyone listened intently, knowing Fred had called this meeting to make an important announcement.
Fred raised three fingers.
"We were betrayed—someone from within leaked our shipping schedule, down to the container number. We've got a rat."
The smuggling coordinator's face darkened.
He hadn't betrayed anyone, but as the one overseeing this operation, any problems reflected poorly on him.
"Williams, I'll have someone work with you to find the traitor. Once we have them, they'll disappear—permanently."
"This rat cost us over half a million dollars," Fred growled, his voice tight with anger.
Williams, the smuggling supervisor, quickly stood and said, "Yes, boss. I'll take care of it. We'll find the bastard responsible!"