Chapter 3 - The Battle of 31st Street
The tires of my SUV screamed against the wet asphalt as I took the corner onto 31st Street at seventy miles per hour.
The industrial corridor near the Chicago River was pitch black, lit only by the occasional flickering amber light of an old factory yard. Abandoned brick warehouses stood like rotting teeth along the water, their windows broken, their iron gates rusted shut.
Up ahead, near Warehouse 4, I saw three dark sedans parked in a defensive perimeter. The smell of gasoline was already heavy in the humid air.
I turned off my headlights two blocks away, coasting the heavy vehicle into the shadows beside an old grain silo. I unholstered both Kimbers, checking the night sights before stepping out into the quiet drizzle.
Dominic was standing near the main loading dock, wearing his signature leather coat, gesturing wildly to four men who were sloshing fuel against the wooden doors of the structure.
"Burn it!" Dominic was shouting, his voice shrill with panicked anger. "I don't care if the bitch is inside or not! Burn the whole damn structure down! If the ledgers are in there, they burn with her!"
"Dominic," I said, stepping out from behind a concrete pillar twenty feet away, my voice cutting through the sound of the rain.
The four men holding the gas cans froze. Dominic spun around so fast he nearly lost his footing on the slick pavement.
"Daniel?" Dominic gasped, his face going pale under the amber streetlights. "What... what are you doing here? How did you get out of the penthouse? Where's Michael?"
"Michael is locked to a radiator in my study," I said, walking forward with a slow, measured stride, both pistols held low at my sides. "And you, cousin, are out of time."
Dominic’s eyes darted frantically toward his men. "Kill him! He’s alone! Kill him now!"
The two men closest to Dominic reached into their jackets.
I didn't hesitate. I raised my right pistol and fired twice. The loud BANG-BANG shattered the silence of the industrial park. Both men collapsed onto the wet pavement before their weapons could clear their holsters.
The other two men dropped their gas cans, threw their hands in the air, and fell to their knees, weeping in terror. They were street-level earners, not soldiers; they hadn't signed up to trade gunfire with a man who had ruled the city's underworld for twenty years.
Dominic pulled a small snub-nosed revolver from his pocket, his hand shaking so violently he could barely hold it straight. "Don't come any closer, Daniel! I swear to God, I'll shoot you! I built Vanguard! I earned that money! You were getting soft! You were giving everything away to that... that accountant's daughter!"
"That accountant's daughter has more spine in her little finger than you've had your entire miserable life," I said, stopping ten feet from him. The barrel of my left pistol was lined up precisely between his eyes. "Where is she, Dominic?"
"She isn't in there!" Dominic screamed, tears mixing with the rain on his face. "It was a setup! We came here because an anonymous tip told us she was hiding in the office upstairs! But the doors were welded shut from the inside! There's no one in there!"
Before I could process his words, a heavy metallic sound echoed from the top of the grain silo behind us.
A floodlight snapped on, blinding us both in a harsh, brilliant white beam.
"Drop the gun, Dominic," a female voice commanded over a heavy loudspeaker.
It wasn't a voice of a victim. It was the calm, precise voice of a woman who had orchestrated every second of this evening.
It was Claire.
I squinted into the blinding glare of the floodlight. High up on the catwalk of the silo, fifty feet above the ground, stood Claire. She was wrapped in a heavy black winter parka, her silhouette clearly showing the pronounced curve of her seven-month pregnancy. Standing on either side of her were four heavily armed men in tactical gear—Arthur O'Malley's elite personal guard.
"Claire!" I called out, my heart hammering against my ribs, a mixture of overwhelming relief and terror surging through my veins. "Claire, get down from there! It isn't safe!"
"I am completely safe, Daniel," she replied through the loudspeaker, her voice cold and unbothered by the rain. "Dominic, drop the revolver, or Mr. O'Malley’s sniper will put a round through your knee."
Dominic looked up at the catwalk, saw the red laser dot hovering directly over his left kneecap, and immediately dropped his gun onto the wet concrete. He fell to his knees, sobbing hysterically.
"Claire..." I took a step toward the base of the silo, raising my hands slightly to show I was disarmed. "Please. Let me talk to you."
The floodlight shifted slightly, illuminating a second figure standing beside Claire on the catwalk.
It was Assistant Director Marcus Vance of the FBI.
May you like
My jaw dropped. "Vance?"
"Good evening, Daniel," Vance’s voice came over the speaker system, sounding disturbingly relaxed. "I believe you know my senior confidential informant, Mrs. Carter?"
