The company was a respectable front for uglier work—hostile takeovers, rigged public contracts, and kickbacks. As a county commissioner, Grayson had solid ties in local government, law enforcement, and the district attorney’s office.
He lived in a large house in an upscale suburb, had a wife, a younger mistress, and three expensive cars. He almost always traveled with armed security. He was afraid of dying, though he would never have admitted it.
His sons, Ian and Dennis, were exactly what you would expect—spoiled, idle, and reckless. Neither worked. Both spent their father’s money freely.
Ian, the older one, was hot-tempered and liked illegal card rooms and high-end escorts. Dennis was more timid but meaner by nature. Witnesses said Dennis had been the one kicking the old man in the ribs with real enthusiasm.
The third participant was Tyler Larson, Dennis’s best friend and the son of a deputy police chief. Tyler had stood there grinning during the beating. He was a loudmouthed club kid who liked designer clothes, expensive liquor, and cocaine.
He believed his father’s badge would get him out of anything. The fourth man was Grayson’s personal bodyguard, Russell Maggio.
Russell had once served in a special tactical unit but had been forced out after a scandal involving excessive force. He was big, obedient, and not especially thoughtful. He was the one who had held the old man down while the others kicked him.
Fifth on the list was the company lawyer, Andrew Krivins. On the surface, he looked respectable—tailored suit, gold-rimmed glasses, polished manners. In reality, he handled the paperwork for Grayson’s dirty property grabs.
Krivins forged documents, leaned on witnesses, and made ugly things look legal. He was the one who had shoved papers in the veteran’s face while the man was bleeding on the pavement. The sixth participant was Grayson himself.
During the beating, Grayson had sat in his luxury SUV and watched. He had not bothered to step out. He simply wanted to see what happened when a stubborn man was taught a lesson.
North studied every page of the files his men had assembled. He memorized faces, addresses, routines. He decided carefully who would go first and who would go last.
He chose to begin at the bottom—with the weakest and most frightened. That way the man at the top would have time to understand what was coming. North wanted Grayson to know that someone was moving toward him, one step at a time.
Late that evening, North went back to the county hospital to see the veteran. Drozdov was able to sit up now. The swelling had gone down, and the bruises were turning yellow. But his eyes looked the same—tired, calm, and unreadable.
The old man looked at him and asked whether he had found the attackers. North said yes, all of them. He sat on a metal stool, took out a cigarette, and rolled it between his fingers…
