Chapter 2 - The Echo of Steel
The paper felt heavy between my fingers. I stared at Marco’s distinctive cursive handwriting—the slanted 'M', the sharp underline—a signature I had seen on a thousand legitimate bills of lading and private security contracts over the last decade.
"He’s been playing both sides since Miami," Vincent whispered, standing up slowly from his folding chair. "Marco didn't get you out of the city six years ago because he was loyal, Dante. He got you out so Arthur Vance could take control of the northern ports without a war. When you survived and rebuilt, Marco stayed close, waiting for the right moment to clip your wings permanently."
Before I could answer, the floorboards above our heads groaned under heavy, synchronized footsteps.
Not the careful, discreet pacing of my personal security detail. These were tactical boots. Heavy. Aggressive.
"They're inside," Vincent said, pulling a compact 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster. "Marco knew you’d come down here alone. He used Owen to lure you into a closed space, and now he’s clearing the witnesses."
I tossed the ledger back to Vincent, my mind working with cold, ruthless speed. "Where is the boy?"
"Martha took Owen out through the storm cellar twenty minutes ago," Vincent replied. "I told her to take him to the safe house near the docks. But Marco’s men are everywhere."
Suddenly, the basement door at the top of the stairs blew inward with a deafening bang. Flashbang grenades bounced down the wooden steps, popping with blinding light and thunderous force.
I dropped behind a stack of oak crates as automatic gunfire tore through the wooden stairs, sending splintered oak raining down into the dim cellar.
"Dante!" Marco’s voice boomed down from the top of the stairwell, stripped of all its former deference. "Give it up, Boss! You had a good run, but the board wants fresh blood! Leave the ledger and walk out, and maybe I’ll let the kid live!"
I wiped a streak of dust from my eye, pulling my custom silver-plated Kimber .45 from beneath my coat. I looked at Vincent across the smoky room. The man I had spent six years hating was now the only thing standing between me and a body bag.
"Can you still shoot, old man?" I asked.
Vincent smirked, racking the slide of his pistol. "Better than your new lieutenant."
"On my mark," I muttered, taking a flash grenade from my belt—a standard-issue tactical piece I always carried for tight quarters. I pulled the pin, cooked it for two seconds, and bounced it up off the exposed ceiling joists toward the top of the stairs.
BOOM.
The muffled screams of two tactical operatives echoed through the stairwell.
"Move!" I roared.
We surged forward together, firing up the narrow staircase with lethal, practiced synchronization. Two of Marco’s men fell backwards into the hallway, their tactical vests ruined.
When we broke out into the ground-floor corridor, the house was a warzone. Glass was shattered across the rug, the front door hung off its hinges, and rain was pouring into the foyer from the open gate outside.
Marco was nowhere to be seen. But parked at the curb, under the flickering streetlamp, was my primary black sedan—its rear door wide open, its tires slashed.
My phone rang in my pocket. I answered it without stopping as we sprinted toward Vincent’s hidden vehicle in the alley.
"Dante," Marco’s voice cackled through the speaker, distorted by the rain. "You were always too sentimental. Checking on a schoolboy? You soft piece of trash. I’ve got the kid. Tell Vincent if I don't get the ledger and the decryption keys by midnight, Owen gets a one-way trip to the bottom of the river."
The line went dead.
I stood in the freezing October rain, the water soaking through my dark suit, my knuckles turning white around my phone.
"He took Owen," I whispered, the cold fire in my chest consuming every trace of doubt.
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Vincent stepped up beside me, dripping wet, holding his weapon low. "Where would he take him?"
"The old grain silos on 88th Street," I said, my voice dropping into a register that made the ambient noise of the storm seem to fade away. "That’s where Vance handles his private business. Call the old vanguard, Vincent. It’s time to remind Chicago why they call me The Wolf."
