Prologue

PROLOGUE

Profile #17

Name: Benjamin Sawyer (a.k.a. The Broker)

Age: 46

Marital Status: Divorced (twice)

Net Worth: 3 Million Euro

Bio:

Corrupt Lawyer

Provides movement of illicit funds

Provides counterfeit documentation

Unique Identifiers:

Unremarkable man

Enjoys being bound during sexual activity and watching others have sex

From the outside, the three-story factory looked abandoned. There was a large padlock on the fence that surrounded the property, and a "No Trespassing" sign fastened to the center of the fence.

At the front of the building, a large piece of wood was nailed across the front door, acting as another layer of deterrence to keep nosey kids and homeless junkies from trying to gain access to the property.

As if that weren't enough, two large German shepherds patrolled the property, as well as twenty-five security cameras and an eight-man rotating security team that kept constant watch around the clock.

No one was getting into this facility, not without someone knowing about it.

The man waited impatiently by the fence for one of the three men armed with machine guns to come and let him in. He adjusted his navy-blue suit jacket, straightening out the side of his lapel that had twisted during his walk from his Porsche to the locked entrance he was currently waiting at.

"Evenin' Mr. Sawyer," an angry-looking German man said as he removed the padlock and pulled open the fence. He stepped aside and allowed the man to enter before turning and latching the lock once again.

The man didn't bother responding. These were worthless grunts, hired to protect the facility and make sure that no one entered… or escaped. They weren't on the same educational and civilized level as he. He was upper crust. He was educated by one of the top Ivy League schools in England before getting his law degree in the Netherlands. His family came from money and privilege, and they didn't exactly waste their time conversing with people whose only purpose was to monitor the security of a facility. He had better things to do with his time.

Speaking of time—they had already wasted enough of his trying to open a damn padlock.

Sawyer walked around to the back of the building, where the only functioning entrance was to the facility.

On this side of the building, large planks of wood had been added along the fence to shield their activities from the general public. They didn't need people wondering why there were so many cars parked in the back of an abandoned factory. The less people saw, the less questions would be raised.

Once he reached the large double doors, he knocked twice, then once, then twice again. Yes, it was stupid, but the man who oversaw operations at this facility insisted on tight security measures. Perhaps secret knocks were considered added security where this moron was from—not that he would ever call the man a moron to his face. Judging by the massive muscle mass and permanent scowl plastered on the man's face… and probably several years of prison experience, Sawyer was pretty sure the man would rip his spine out through his throat.

Sawyer listened as large bolts were pulled back on the other side of the door—another added security measure to keep strangers out and merchandise in.

"Hey," a hefty Belgium man greeted. He glanced around the yard, no doubt double-checking whether Sawyer had been followed.

Good. At least the boss had some competent workers on his staff. Maybe this operation might last longer than two years .

"Com' in. Boss is downstairs," the man muttered through broken English.

Sawyer nodded, then entered the facility.

The lights were dim to avoid drawing attention, and the temperature was kept low to trick the electric company into believing that the facility was in low operation. Once again, they didn't need people asking questions.

Sawyer made his way through the facility, taking note of all the men with guns watching him. They all knew better than to touch him. He was the brains behind this operation. Without his knowledge and expertise, this whole operation would not exist.

Reaching the end of the hallway, he pulled open the large steel door and clenched his teeth as the door squealed open.

The least they could do was oil the damn thing .

Another example of how intelligent people like himself were needed to instruct and give orders to dumb idiots like the ones working in this facility.

Gripping the cold metal railing, Sawyer made his way down into the heart of the operation. The lighting was much better down here. Considering no one could see down into the basement, they were free to use as much lighting as they wanted—within reason, of course. They still wanted to avoid unnecessary questions.

They were operating under the guise that there was minimal maintenance staff who were cleaning and updating the facility until it could be repurposed. Sawyer had drafted all the paperwork and necessary documentation to keep the city happy and the authorities off their backs. Once again, another important task that only he could perform.

"'Bout fuckin' time," a large, burly voice growled, startling him.

Sawyer's head snapped in the direction of the voice and spotted the man who oversaw this portion of the operation.

"Yeah, took me a bit of time to wrap up some things at the office. But I'm here now, so can we get this shit over and done with." He followed the man into his dingy office and took a seat on his sofa.

Sawyer glanced around at the messy room the man called an office. There was an old metal desk—probably left over from when this place actually operated as a factory. There was a small sofa which he currently sat on, a ratty torn-to-shit recliner, and a bunch of shelves that appeared to be a homemade bar the man had made for himself.

For an uneducated brute from the streets, the guy was doing well for himself—financially, that was. He had aligned himself with a corrupt politician who introduced the ex-con to Sawyer at a boxing match held in London. The three spent the next three hours watching blood burst from men's faces and downing shots of whiskey. It was only after the fight that Sawyer suggested that the two of them grab some drinks and discuss a possible business venture together.

The gig was simple. Sawyer handled all the paperwork and movement of funds, while this musclehead handled procurement and delivery of the product. And for their troubles, they were both paid handsomely.

"You got this month's orders?" the large beast asked, taking a seat in the distressed leather recliner. The man had a thick Irish accent and growled when he spoke.

Sawyer wasn't sure where the man originated from but did know that he'd spent time in prison. For what crime? He didn't know.

"Yeah, we got four more orders and potentially two others on the way," Sawyer explained, pulling a folder out of his briefcase and passing it to the angry-looking man.

The man grumbled as he flipped through the file, never bothering to look up at Sawyer. Probably for the best. Sawyer didn't care to stare at the man's ugly mug. If there were a face that said, "I eat puppies for breakfast," it was the face of this man.

"Should be easy enough. We'll get started on this right away."

"And how is the current batch of products coming along?" Sawyer asked, eager to unload the merchandise so he and everyone else could get paid.

The angry man smiled—terrifying as that sounds. "Why don't you come see for yourself?"

Sawyer nodded, then followed the man out of his office and down another corridor. They stopped in front of another set of double doors armed with two more gangsters with guns. These two looked Hispanic and were both covered in face tattoos.

Where did he find these guys?

Scary Irish boss-man nodded, and the two standing guard opened the doors at the same time.

Sawyer took a step into the room and smiled. At least twenty beds were lined up, each filled with patients waiting to be moved to the next phase.

"Excellent," Sawyer whispered, internally salivating at the boatload of money they were going to make.

"I told you we could deliver," the scary Irish dude responded with an evil grin. His neck tattoo stretched as he turned to admire his handiwork.

There was a reason that they hired this ex-con to handle their dirty work. Procurement of their product was a tricky task.

"Yes, you certainly did. My clients will be more than happy to hear that things are progressing as planned."