It was November 15, 1997. Mike and Jim drove out in a nondescript sedan. Jim was behind the wheel. The roads were slick with sleet. Mike checked his .45 one last time. They walked into the lodge, which was heated by a wood stove. The Vulture was sitting at a rough table. The air was thick with tension. Mike sat across from him, Jim to his right. The talk was hostile from the start. The Vulture wanted everything—the goods, the territory, and a massive “tax” for his troubles.
Mike refused. Suddenly, the door kicked open. Three guys with submachine guns burst in. It was a setup. Mike and Jim stood up, hands near their holsters, but they were outgunned. The Vulture smirked. “It’s over, Hammer. You’re coming with us. We’ll hold you until your people pay up.” For a man like Mike, being a hostage was a fate worse than death. It was a total loss of respect.
Jim didn’t wait. He lunged, drew his piece, and fired. He hit one of the gunmen in the shoulder. The room exploded in gunfire. Jim provided cover, screaming for Mike to get to the door. Mike scrambled out into the freezing night, bullets splintering the wood around him. They ran for the car. Mike felt a sharp, hot sting in his back and hit the snow hard.
Jim didn’t leave him. He ran back, grabbed Mike by the collar, and dragged him toward the sedan. Another burst of fire came from the lodge. Jim flinched, his body jerking, but he didn’t let go. He shoved Mike into the passenger seat, jumped behind the wheel, and floored it. Bullets shattered the rear window as they sped down the logging road. Mike checked himself—the bullet had grazed his back, tearing his jacket but missing anything vital. He was lucky.
He turned to Jim. Jim was slumped over the wheel, his left hand clutching his side. Blood was soaking through his coat. “Jim, you’re hit!” Mike yelled. “I’m fine… we’re almost there,” Jim wheezed, his face turning the color of ash. He drove another ten miles on sheer willpower before the car swerved onto the shoulder and died. Jim collapsed against the steering wheel.
Mike pulled him out. The wound was deep, low in the gut. “Hold on, Jim. I’ll get you to a doctor,” Mike pleaded, trying to stanch the bleeding with his scarf. Jim opened his eyes, the light fading from them. “I’m not gonna make it, Mike. Listen to me… Sarah… Allison… take care of them. Give me your word.” Mike gripped his friend’s hand. “I swear it. On my life.” Jim nodded once, exhaled, and went still.
Mike sat there in the silence of the woods, holding his dead brother. He didn’t cry—men like him didn’t—but a cold, hard knot formed in his chest. He brought Jim’s body back to the city that night. The funeral was huge. Sarah was a ghost of herself, and little Allison, only three, clung to her mother’s dress. Mike stood at the edge of the grave. As they lowered the casket, he whispered, “I’ve got her, Jim. She’s my daughter now.”
Mike kept his word. He visited Sarah the next week. He sat in her kitchen and laid it out. “Sarah, I promised Jim. Whatever you need—money, help, anything—you call me. Allison’s future is covered. That’s my job now.” Sarah just nodded, her voice gone. Mike started sending money every week. He didn’t make it a big deal; he just made sure they never wanted for anything. He watched Allison grow up through school photos and short visits. He felt a warmth he couldn’t explain, a sense of purpose that had nothing to do with the streets.
The war with Philly ended quickly. Mike hit them so hard and so fast that The Vulture begged for a truce. They settled on a border, but Mike never forgot. He spent the next few years overseeing his interests, but the world was changing. Younger, more violent crews were taking over. Mike stayed old-school, but he knew his time was coming. In 2001, the feds finally caught up with him on a racketeering charge. He took seven years without blinking. He was sent to Rockwood State Pen.
Inside, Mike was a legend. He ran his block with a fair hand and kept the peace. Sarah wrote to him once a month, sending photos of Allison. Allison in kindergarten. Allison at her first dance recital. Mike kept the photos in his locker. In 2003, Sarah wrote that Allison had started first grade and was the smartest kid in her class. Mike smiled—a rare sight in Rockwood. In 2005, a photo arrived of a seven-year-old Allison in her school uniform, looking exactly like Jim. Mike stared at it for hours.
