Chapter 5 - The Cost of Loyalty
The noise was over in less than two minutes.
The second truck had tried to turn around in the narrow lane, its heavy rear axle getting stuck deep in the water-logged ditch near the red oaks. Two men had jumped out into the brush, but Marcus had moved through the high grass behind the house like a ghost from the old neighborhood, his shots quick, precise, and final.
When the smoke cleared and the thrum of the engines finally died, the only sound left was the rain dripping off the green steel shutters and the wet, heavy breathing of Jimmy, who was still zip-tied to the headrest of the second truck.
Voss walked up to the passenger door.
The glass was shattered, rain leaking inside onto the gray fabric seats.
Jimmy was twenty-eight, pale, with narrow shoulders and eyes that were red from three hours of crying. He looked up at Voss, his chin trembling so hard his teeth clicked together.
"Hector... please," Jimmy sobbed, his voice small, terrified. "They... they said they were gonna burn my sister's house... they had her address in Pilsen... I didn't know they were gonna—"
Voss pulled a small pocket knife from his canvas jacket. He reached inside the window and cut the heavy plastic bands around Jimmy’s wrists with one clean stroke.
"Get out," Voss said softly.
Jimmy blinked, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "What?"
"Get out of the truck," Voss repeated. He didn't look angry. He looked like he was looking at an old chair that had finally broken under too much weight. "There’s twelve hundred dollars in the glove box. Take it. Walk to the highway. Catch the four o'clock bus to St. Louis."
"Hector... I’m sorry... I swear to God I’m sorry—"
"If I ever see your face in Cook County again," Voss said, his eyes locking onto Jimmy’s with a cold, terrifying finality, "I won't ask about your sister."
Jimmy scrambled out of the truck, falling once in the deep mud, before picking himself up and running down the lane toward the main road as fast as his legs could carry him, not looking back once.
Marcus walked up, wiping his pistol with a dry rag from his pocket. He looked down the lane at the retreating figure, then looked at the two trucks sitting in the mud.
"We have four hours before Marcos realizes Cruz isn't calling back," Marcus said.
"Three," Voss corrected. "Marcos is paranoid. He checks in every ninety minutes."
"So what’s the move?" Marcus asked. "We can't stay here now. The lane's ruined, and the county sheriff will be down here by noon if the neighbors heard the shots."
Voss looked back at the limestone house. High up on the second floor, a tiny shadow moved behind the green steel shutter—Elena, looking down through the three-inch slit.
"We go to the source," Voss said.
Marcus stared at him. "The source?"
"Ramon Morales," Voss said. "The old man."
"Hector, the old man’s dying in a private hospice in Highland Park," Marcus said, his voice rising in rare disbelief. "He’s got armed guards on every floor. Marcos controls the access list."
"Marcos controls the guards," Voss said, walking back toward the house. "He doesn't control the doctors. And he certainly doesn't control the woman who runs the hospice."
Marcus frowned. "Who runs it?"
May you like
Voss stopped on the porch steps. He looked back over his shoulder, his face gray against the cold rain.
"My mother’s sister," Voss said softly. "The aunt I haven't spoken to since nineteen-ninety-six."
