Prologue
Chicago June 5, 1929
Andre Zacherov half-heartedly flipped through the newspaper in front of him and sipped his bitter, burnt coffee. Ever since the end of the dog sled race in February, it seemed the local news had returned to its original bland flavor. The best thing the paper could come up with is a story about how a couple of crocodiles had escaped from the local zoo. Some new spice was added to his day when the phone rang. He stood up and walked over to the other side of the humble loft in which he resided. Andre snatched up the candle-stick phone and held the receiver to his ear.
"Hello?" he said into it.
"We need to meet." said a monotone voice on the other end. Andre stood strait up at the sound of the familiar voice. A tingle ran up and down his spine.
"Where?"
"Lakeshore drive will do. We need to discuss a new business arrangement."
"Consider me there." the line was cut and he set the phone back down.
"Would it ever kill the man to say good-bye?" Andre said to himself. He quickly got ready to leave. Andre picked up his grey coat off of the rack and its matching hat. Something was missing; he opened the drawer in the table next to his door and saw what he was looking for; his pearl encrusted .45 caliber handgun resting in its shoulder holster.
"Can't be too careful." Andre picked the gun up out of the drawer and checked to make sure it was loaded. He slipped the holster on and concealed it under his coat. He turned the doorknob and opened it to the bustling metropolis of Chicago. Andre usually loved the warm summer weather, although today, it was a stretch to call it warm. A cold front had moved in and given a dull overcast that blotted the sun. He walked from his loft and turned down the street. The buildings of the Loop pierced into the grey sky above him and he silently gawked at the marvels of engineering and ingenuity around him. Hailing from a small town in the Styx of Kansas from a pair of humble Ukrainian parents make one tend to gawk at the city from time to time. One could call the Loop the pulsing nerve-center of Chicago and housed the many businesses that fueled it, both legitimate and otherwise. Andre looked into the dilapidated storefront that once supported the entire area with its poison of choice. The windows of the once busy liquor store were covered in dust and had lost their sheen, such to a point that Andre could not see his own reflection. Ever since the passing of the Volstead Act; prohibition was the law of the land and no alcohol has been sold in stores since.
"What a waste." Andre muttered as he continued to walk down the street. A siren could be heard behind him and he instinctively spun on his heel and saw the source. A police car was barreling down the road; it blitzed past him and turned around the corner, lifting its tires off of the ground in the process. The car skidded off to the side, hitting another parked car. The result was a pair of accordioned vehicles and people rushing to the accident to render aid. Andre ignored the chaos and resumed his path. The police were now attempting to crack down on the illegal importation of alcohol and they were stretched so thin they could not keep up the criminal underworld. Andre simply shook his head and continued on. A quarter of an hour later, the street sign signifying he had arrived at Lakeshore drive was just ahead. He took a quick glance around and saw exactly what he was looking for. A man in a trench coat opened the door from an Italian restaurant and walked across the street to a park. The somewhat rotund man sat down at a bench with a newspaper. Andre walked past and pretended to tie his shoe.
"Why hello, Mr. Zacherov." Said the man in a distinct Sicilian accent
"My pleasure, Mr. Rouliani, so what is the new business arrangement you wanted to discuss?"
"We have been approached by a very lucrative benefactor in Europe, he has made a few, call them distinct requests."
"Such as?"
"Do you like dogs?" Rouliani took an envelope out of his coat and handed it to Andre. Inside was a newspaper photo of a pair of sled teams with some of the dogs circled in a red pen. Also in the envelope was a plane ticket to Anchorage, Alaska.
