The dim, gray light of a Chicago dawn seeped through the narrow windows of a basement union office.
Viktor sat at a metal desk, the scent of old wood and cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air.
A rotary phone rested beside a stack of handbills calling for "worker solidarity."
His contact had been delayed a small-time union organizer who had no idea he was about to become part of something far larger than his local grievances.
Viktor drummed his fingers on the desk, his sharp eyes scanning the room.
He wasn't a man to waste time, but he knew patience was a weapon as sharp as any knife.
The basement door creaked open, and a wiry man in his forties stepped in, his face shadowed by a flat cap.
"Mr. V," the man said cautiously, closing the door behind him. "I wasn't sure you'd show."
"I always show," Viktor replied, his voice calm but edged with menace.
