Cutler's eyes narrowed.
The anger morphed into a smug, greasy confidence. He leaned back in his squeaking chair, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"So you're the new blood," Cutler sneered. "Listen to me, kid. I don't care what piece of paper you signed in Manhattan. Out here, the cranes don't move unless I say they move. The previous owners understood the cost of doing business. You missed a payment. The freight stays on the water until my consulting fee is deposited."
Ryan didn't blink. He reached forward and tapped the manila folder.
"Open it," Ryan commanded.
Cutler frowned. He leaned forward, grabbing the folder. He flipped it open.
He stared at the first page. It was a high-resolution printout of the offshore routing numbers linking the union pension fund to his wife's shell company in the Bahamas. The second page was a complete ledger of every dollar he had skimmed from the dockworkers over the past four years.
