Chapter 6 - The Vault beneath the Drake
The Drake Hotel stood as a grand monument of Chicago's Gilded Age, its granite facade overlooking the dark, frozen waters of Lake Michigan.
Outside, a blizzard was howling, blowing snow across Michigan Avenue and obscuring the city lights. Inside the hotel's sub-basement, three levels beneath the velvet-carpeted lobby, the air was thick with dust, rust, and the metallic tang of old iron.
I moved through the dim utility corridors alongside Dominic and six of my best men. We wore night-vision goggles and silent footwear, stepping over rusted steam pipes and abandoned boiler equipment.
Up ahead, light flickered through an open doorway. The muffled sound of angry voices echoed through the corridor.
"Move faster, you idiots!" a harsh voice yelled. It was Julian Vale. "The armored truck is waiting in the alley! We get the bonds, load the cash, and we blow the railyard at dawn!"
I signaled for my men to hold position at the corner of the brick archway.
I peeked around the frame.
The subterranean vault was massive—a remnant of Prohibition-era smuggling operations. The massive steel door had been torched open with thermite, its melted edges glowing a dull orange. Inside, Julian Vale and six heavily armed mercenaries were frantically stuffing duffel bags with thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills and steel boxes containing bearer bonds.
Julian was trembling with panicked adrenaline, a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.
"We take this money, drive to Detroit, and regroup," Julian barked at his men. "Gabriel Vance thinks he’s king now just because his dead brother crawled out of a hole! I'm going to buy enough firepower to tear his mansion apart stone by stone!"
"You won't make it to Michigan Avenue, Julian," I said, stepping calmly into the doorway, my pistol pointed directly at his chest.
Julian spun around, his eyes widening in sheer shock. The six mercenaries instantly raised their rifles, but before they could squeeze their triggers, Dominic’s team surged around the archway, red laser sights painting the chests of every single gunman in the room.
"Drop your weapons!" Dominic roared. "Drop them now or we paint this vault with your brains!"
The mercenaries looked at the red dots dancing on their body armor. They looked at the disciplined, cold discipline of my men. They realized instantly that they were outmatched, outpositioned, and underpaid for this level of suicide.
One by one, the mercenaries clattered their rifles onto the concrete floor, raising their hands above their heads.
"Traitorous bastards!" Julian screamed at his hired help. "Shoot him! I'll double your pay! Shoot him!"
"They're smart men, Julian," I said, taking two deliberate steps toward him. "They know when a war is lost."
Julian’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of rage. Realizing he was completely abandoned, he made a frantic, desperate grab for the submachine gun hanging at his hip.
BANG.
A single shot echoed like a cannon blast through the enclosed concrete vault.
Julian shrieked, dropping to his knees as my bullet shattered his right collarbone, sending his weapon clattering harmlessly into the dust. He clutched his shoulder, sobbing and bleeding onto a duffel bag filled with his uncle's stolen millions.
I stepped over the fallen duffel bags, stopping directly above Julian. I used the toe of my leather boot to kick his dropped weapon far out of reach.
"Your uncle Lorenzo is sitting in a cold basement right now, Julian," I informed him, my voice devoid of any warmth. "He’s waiting for company."
Julian looked up at me through tears of agony, his pride completely shattered. "Please... Gabriel... don't kill me... I was just following Lorenzo's orders... he made me do it!"
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"Every coward blames his master when the whip comes out," I replied with cold disdain.
I looked over at Dominic. "Zip-tie the mercenaries and leave them for the federal authorities. Wrap Julian’s shoulder, load this money into our trucks, and bring Julian to the estate. It's time for a final court session."
