"They're sharp," Charlie Lee mused, leaning back in his chair as he reviewed the veteran recruitment files. "Forgotten their combat instincts? Doesn't matter. Raw discipline and survival grit—that's what Africa needs."
The men in question were battle-hardened, survivors of trenches and ambushes, now idle in a nation buckling under the Depression's weight. To Charlie, they were undervalued assets. *Prime for reshaping.*
"Ship them to Africa once training's done," he ordered Ben, who stood stiffly by the door. "Morgan's name opens doors there. We'll plant roots early."
Ben nodded, scribbling notes. "The First National Bank negotiations are hitting walls. Their team insists we're nothing without their client list."
Charlie smirked. "Remind them who holds the bond rights."
---
In the United Bank conference room, tensions simmered. Across the polished mahogany, First National's lead negotiator—a silver-haired bulldog named Hartley—sneered at Ben's calm rebuttals.
"Without our connections, your *precious* bonds are worthless paper," Hartley snapped, jabbing a finger at the contract draft.
Ben, ever unflappable, tilted his head. "And without issuance rights, your 'connections' have no product to sell. Funny how that works."
The stalemate had dragged on for days. Hartley's team cycled through threats, flattery, and theatrics. Ben's counter? A metronome-like repetition: *"We have the rights."*
By the tenth day, Hartley's patience snapped. "Get your boss in here. This farce ends now."
---
Charlie arrived flanked by Aiken, but it was the third man—Cyrus McCormick, patriarch of the Chicago Consortium—who silenced the room.
"Charlie, meet Cyrus," Aiken said, relish in his tone. "He's eager to see the mind behind Golden Arch's… *aggressive* expansion."
Cyrus's grip was vise-like, his appraisal shrewd. "A franchise empire feeding America? Clever. But peanuts compared to what we're building."
Charlie shrugged. "Burgers fund ambitions. Speaking of which—" He glanced at Hartley, now paling under Cyrus's glare. "Shall we cut the pageantry?"
Cyrus chuckled, waving dismissively. "Hartley, fetch coffee. The adults will talk."
---
Behind closed doors, Cyrus laid bare the prize: a $1.2 billion infrastructure overhaul spanning Chicago's North Bank—roads, pipelines, power grids, all dripping with federal funds.
"Seventy percent of contracts go to our consortium," Aiken explained. "The rest? Subcontractors. Governors' cousins. Senators' brothers-in-law. Everyone gets a taste."
Charlie's mind raced. *A billion-dollar pie, and they're offering crumbs.* "What's my cut?"
"Thirteen percent," Cyrus said, as if granting a favor.
Charlie laughed. "Try thirty."
Aiken choked on his whiskey. Cyrus's cane thudded against the floor. "Eighteen. Final offer."
"Twenty-eight. Or I walk, and your bonds collect dust."
Silence hung like a guillotine. Cyrus's jaw twitched. *This upstart—barely off the boat—daring to dictate terms.*
Yet the math was undeniable: Charlie's bond rights doubled the profit margins. Cyrus grimaced. "Twenty-five. But breathe a word of this, and I'll bury you in permits."
Charlie stood, hand extended. "Pleasure doing business, *partner*."
---
As aides scrambled to draft contracts, the trio toasted with Cyrus's private bourbon.
"To Golden Arch," Cyrus mocked, swirling his glass. "May your fries stay salty."
"To the North Bank," Charlie countered. "May your kickbacks stay discreet."
Aiken snorted. "To surviving each other."
Later, cameras flashed as Charlie and Cyrus shook hands—the young maverick and the old titan, bound by mutual greed.
"You've changed my view of your… *people*," Cyrus muttered, smile plastered for the press.
Charlie's grin sharpened. "We're all mercenaries here, Cyrus. Just some of us admit it."
---
That night, Charlie stood at his office window, Chicago's skyline glittering like a diamond mine.
*Africa. Veterans. Franchises. Bonds.* Each a chess piece, each a gamble.
Ben entered, bearing the finalized contract. "McCormick's lawyers inserted a poison pill—page 42, subsection—"
"I know." Charlie didn't turn. "Let them think they've outsmarted us. We'll bleed them dry by year's end."
Somewhere below, a train whistle echoed—a sound like hunger, like momentum. Charlie smiled. *Let the old lions cling to their scraps. The future is built by those who see the board first.*