I stood by the reinforced glass window of the executive office, looking down into the staging yard of Longroad Logistics. My stomach dropped. A group of about seven or eight men had swarmed the gate, their loud, abrasive voices cutting through the hum of the idling trucks. They were dressed in the universal uniform of low-level street thugs—oversized hoodies, cheap tracksuits, and that unmistakable air of unearned confidence.
They were clearly here to cause trouble, and they weren't trying to hide it.
The warehouse workers, usually a rugged and independent bunch, immediately stopped what they were doing. As soon as they saw me descend the stairs and enter the yard, they began to gravitate toward me, looking for a leader. We actually had the numbers; if it came down to a brawl, my crew wa
