Chapter 16 - The wolf at the gate
The heavy coal train thundered through the crossing just as Frank pulled the SUV onto the gravel shoulder behind an abandoned grain silo. Vincent jumped out into the pouring rain, sprinted toward the moving freight cars, and hurled the magnetic tracker directly onto the rusty side of an open hopper car speeding eastward.
By the time he climbed back into the vehicle, soaking wet, the pulsing red beacon was traveling forty miles per hour toward the Michigan state line.
"Now," Vincent said, brushing wet hair from his forehead, "we double back. We go to Pier 14."
"Pier 14?" Frank blinked in surprise. "Boss, that’s where the key goes. If they're hunting us, that warehouse is the most obvious trap in Cook County."
"They think we’re running east toward Indiana," Vincent explained, his eyes burning with icy focus. "They won't expect us to head straight into the heart of the industrial district. Marco left that key for a reason. Whatever is inside locker 408 is the only weapon that can end this war before they tear Chicago apart looking for this child."
Forty-five minutes later, the SUV cut its lights and rolled into the shadows of an overgrown industrial lot on the banks of the murky Calumet River. Pier 14 was a massive, decaying brick structure surrounded by chain-link fences and rusted cranes that looked like prehistoric skeletons against the rainy night sky.
Vincent turned to Frank. "Stay in the vehicle with Alina and Mia. Keep the engine running. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, you take them to the safehouse in Milwaukee and call nobody. Not even the Commission."
"I don't like leaving you without backup, Vincent," Frank said, gripping his pistol.
"You're protecting the only thing that matters," Vincent said quietly, his eyes meeting Frank's with absolute authority. Then, he looked into the backseat at Alina. "Trust me."
Alina reached forward, briefly touching his hand. Her skin was warm against his chilled fingers. "Please be careful, Vincent."
He nodded, stepped out into the dark, and slipped through a gap in the rusted fence.
The interior of Warehouse 14 smelled of stagnant river water, damp wood, and machine oil. Vincent navigated the cavernous space with his flashlight held low, illuminating rows of numbered metal storage lockers that had sat abandoned since the fall of Don Valetti.
He moved down aisle four until his beam hit the tarnished brass numbers: *408*.
Vincent inserted the rusted key into the heavy padlock. The cylinder resisted for a second, coated in years of grime, then turned with a satisfying, metallic *click*.
Vincent pulled the padlock free and hauled the heavy metal door upward.
Inside sat a single olive-drab military footlocker. Vincent knelt, flipped the latches, and lifted the lid.
There were no bricks of cash. There were no bearer bonds.
Inside lay three bound leather journals, a high-end audio cassette recorder, and a sealed legal document bearing the official gold seal of the United States Department of Justice.
Vincent picked up the document, his flashlight illuminating the bold header at the top of the first page:
*FEDERALLY PROTECTED ASSET ASSIGNMENT: OPERATION BLACK ORCHARD.*
Vincent skimmed the names listed on the first page, and the air left his lungs in a sharp, stunned breath.
Marco Delgado was never a criminal. He was an undercover federal operative embedded within the Valetti organization to expose an international human trafficking and arms syndicate. And the high-ranking official who had authorized Marco’s execution—the man who had sold his cover to the Chicago mob—was not a mafia boss at all.
It was the United States District Attorney for Northern Illinois, Marcus Vance.
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And beneath Vance's signature was a second, handwritten codename that made Vincent's blood boil:
*The Bishop.*
