Chapter 6 - The Westside Strike
The strategic offensive began at noon.
In less than four hours, my private security teams, coordinated by Michael from our central war room, executed twenty simultaneous raids on Marcus Vance’s illegal operations across northern Illinois.
At the Gary shipping terminals, three of Vance’s cargo ships carrying illegal contraband were seized by federal marshals—tipped off by anonymous, impeccably detailed intelligence dossiers sent directly from my office.
At the Oakbrook financial center, three shell companies managed by Julian Vance were frozen by court injunctions after evidence of offshore tax fraud hit the desk of the State Attorney General.
By four in the afternoon, Marcus Vance’s operations were paralyzed. His revenue streams were severed, his lieutenants were scrambling for cover, and his private security force was pinned down at his heavily fortified mansion in Oak Park.
Inside the Prairie Avenue safe house, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the violence unfolding across the city.
I sat at the small wooden table in the third-floor kitchen, watching Clara draw pictures with a set of colored pencils I had bought for her. Bear was lying under the table, resting his chin on my leather shoe, perfectly comfortable in his new role as my unofficial shadow.
"What are you drawing, Clara?" I asked, sipping a cup of dark coffee.
She held up the paper. It was a picture of a large, stone house with a big garden, a giant brown dog running through green grass, and three figures holding hands: a little girl, an old woman, and a tall man wearing a long dark coat.
"Is that me?" I asked, pointing to the tall man.
Clara nodded, her brown eyes shiny with hope. "Daddy said that when the bad men went away, we were going to buy a house in the country with a pond for Bear."
A sharp pang of sorrow hit my chest, but I forced a warm smile onto my face.
"A pond, huh?" I said, leaning closer. "Bear looks like he’s a terrible swimmer."
Clara let out a small, musical laugh—a light, joyous sound that swept through the quiet kitchen like a breeze. "He is! He falls into the water and gets all muddy!"
The kitchen door opened quietly, and Michael stepped inside. He looked at Clara, then gave me a subtle nod toward the hallway.
I patted Clara’s head gently. "Stay here with Bear for a moment, sweetie. I have to speak with Michael."
I stepped out into the hallway, closing the heavy wooden door halfway behind me.
"What's the status?" I asked softly.
"Julian Vance has broken rank," Michael reported in a low voice. "He realized his father’s ship is sinking. Twenty minutes ago, Julian sent a private envoy to our secondary office in Rosemont. He wants a sit-down."
I narrowed my eyes. "Julian wants to sell out his father?"
"Julian cares about two things: money and his own neck," Michael said dryly. "He knows that if he stays on his father’s side, you’ll wipe him out along with Marcus. He’s offering to hand over Marcus’s location and the remaining security codes to the Oak Park estate in exchange for safe passage out of the country."
I looked back through the crack in the door at Clara, who was currently busy coloring the green grass around the wooden house.
"Set up the meeting," I ordered quiet coldness settling over my tone. "In the neutral zone at the St. Regis hotel. Five o'clock."
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"Do we trust him?" Michael asked.
"Of course not," I replied. "Bring two snipers and an extraction team. If Julian steps out of line by an inch, make sure he doesn't leave that hotel room alive."
