Chapter 7 - The Escape over the Water
As the guards stepped toward the door, Michael didn't hesitate. He grabbed the heavy iron pipe wrench from the workbench and slammed it against the glass of the workshop window, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
He threw the wrench at the lead guard’s face, catching him in the jaw and sending him stumbling back against the catwalk railing.
"Run!" Michael shouted to Eleanor, grabbing her hand and pulling her through the back door of the workshop, which led to the lower level of the pump house.
They descended a steep, rusted iron spiral staircase, their footsteps echoing loudly in the cavernous space below. The air down here was even colder, the lake water rushing directly beneath the metal grates of the floor.
"There’s an emergency exit near the intake grates," Eleanor said, her flashlight beam bouncing wildly off the concrete walls. "It leads to the outer breakwater."
Behind them, they could hear the guards shouting, their flashlights cutting through the darkness above.
"They’re on the lower level!" a voice yelled.
Michael’s breath came in short, painful gasps, his sixty-year-old body protesting the intense physical strain. But he kept his grip on Eleanor’s hand, his only focus keeping her and the notebook safe.
They reached a heavy, steel door at the end of the passage. Michael threw his weight against the panic bar.
The door burst open, and they were hit by the full fury of the Chicago winter.
The snow was falling in a blinding white sheet, the lake wind howling like a wounded animal. The outer breakwater was a narrow, concrete walkway that stretched out into the dark, turbulent waters of Lake Michigan, surrounded by massive, ice-covered boulders.
"We have to go down the breakwater," Michael said, his voice lost in the roar of the wind. "The service road is on the other side. My driver is waiting there."
They stumbled out onto the concrete path, the ice making every step a dangerous gamble. Behind them, the door of the pump house opened, and the two guards stepped out into the snow, their flashlights scanning the dark.
"Stop!" one of the guards shouted, drawing his weapon.
"Keep going!" Michael urged Eleanor, pushing her ahead of him.
Suddenly, Michael’s foot slipped on a patch of black ice. He fell hard, his knee striking the concrete with a sickening crack. He let out a sharp cry of pain, his flashlight flying from his hand and vanishing into the black waters of the lake.
"Michael!" Eleanor stopped, running back to him.
"Go, Eleanor!" Michael gasped, his face twisted in pain. "Take the notebook and run! You have to save Lily’s future!"
"I’m not leaving you," Eleanor said, her voice fierce. She grabbed his arm, trying to lift him, but his weight was too much for her.
The guards were closing in, their figures looking like dark ghosts in the swirling snow.
"Give us the book, Mrs. Vance," the lead guard said, his gun raised. "It’s over."
Eleanor looked at the guard, then at Michael, then down at the black notebook in her hand. For a second, it seemed like she had no choice but to surrender.
Then, a bright, blinding light cut through the snow from the service road.
The siren of a Chicago Police patrol car wailed, its blue and red lights reflecting off the frozen lake. A voice boomed through a megaphone.
"This is the Chicago Police Department! Drop your weapons and step away from the breakwater!"
The guards froze, their eyes darting between the police car and Arthur, who had just stepped out of the pump house door.
Arthur’s face went pale. He had not anticipated the police.
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Standing beside the patrol car was Betty McCall, her yellow winter coat bright against the snow, and a senior police detective Michael recognized from his charity dinners.
"I called them, Mr. Patterson!" Betty shouted over the wind, her voice filled with the fierce, maternal authority of the South Side. "I knew those corporate bastards would try something dirty tonight!"
