Chapter 3 - The Stockyard Raid
The rain falling over Chicago’s south side at midnight was thick, freezing, and mixed with slush that clung to the rusted iron girders of the abandoned meatpacking district.
Three black SUVs pulled into an alleyway two hundred yards from the abandoned Atlas Cold Storage facility. Their engines died simultaneously, their exterior lights completely cut.
Inside the lead vehicle, Nathan sat in the front passenger seat, checking the night-vision optic on his suppressed carbine. Beside him, Vance adjusted his tactical headset.
"Thermal imaging shows five heat signatures inside the main loading bay," Vance reported, pointing to a small tablet screen displaying a thermal map of the building. "Four guards armed with short-barrel rifles. One smaller signature tied to a steel pillar in the center. That’s the boy."
"Any sign of Slate?" Nathan asked.
"No. Slate never does his own dirty work. He hired a local crew—ex-Mercenaries from the Balkan route led by a guy named Viktor Dragic. They're waiting for the secondary signal from Raymond's phone to execute the child and torch the building."
Nathan’s jaw set like iron. "No survivors among the guards. I want Viktor alive for two minutes. That's all the time I need."
"Moving in thirty seconds," Vance said into his headset.
The six-man team slipped out into the freezing rain like ghosts dressed in matte-black armor. They didn't move like street thugs; they moved with the terrifying, synchronized speed of special operations veterans.
They breached the building's side entrance using an ultrasonic lock-cutter that opened the heavy steel door without making a sound higher than twenty decibels.
Inside, the cold-storage plant was a cavernous labyrinth of rusted meat hooks, dangling plastic strip curtains, and patches of thick, dirty ice covering the concrete floor. The air was five degrees below freezing, smelling of ancient blood and damp mold.
In the center of the bay, six-year-old Leo sat tied to an iron support beam with heavy duct tape wrapped around his ankles and mouth. He was shivering violently, his small eyes wide with pure terror.
Ten feet away, three men in heavy winter coats sat around a portable propane heater, drinking vodka from plastic cups while a fourth man paced near the loading dock door holding an assault rifle.
"Where's the damn message?" one of the men grunted in a thick Eastern European accent. "The old man was supposed to text an hour ago."
"Relax, Viktor," another laughed. "Blackwood is probably choking on his own blood while his guards run around like chickens. As soon as the wire transfer clears from Slate, we pop the kid and head to Miami."
Above them, on the narrow catwalk twenty feet up in the shadows, Nathan aligned his crosshairs with Viktor’s throat.
He raised two fingers.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Three faint, metallic whispers echoed through the high girders.
The three men sitting around the propane heater collapsed simultaneously, their plastic cups hitting the floor before their bodies even struck the ice. Each had a single, perfectly placed hole through the center of their foreheads.
Viktor, standing near the loading dock, spun around, grabbing his rifle. "What the—!"
Before he could raise the weapon, Nathan dropped from the catwalk, landing on Viktor’s back with the crushing weight of a falling anvil.
CRACK!
The rifle flew across the ice as Nathan drove Viktor’s face directly into the frozen concrete, shattering his nose and jaw in a single stroke. Nathan rolled the mercenary over, placed his knee heavy on Viktor's windpipe, and pressed the scalding-hot barrel of his suppressor against the man's left eye.
"Speak quietly," Nathan whispered, his breath rising in a white cloud of steam. "Where is Slate?"
Viktor choked, blood bubbling from his ruined mouth. "I... I don't know! He... he calls from a private yacht... docked at Navy Pier!"
"What is the name of the yacht?"
"The... The Imperial Sun!" Viktor gasped, tears streaming through the blood on his face. "Please! Don't kill me!"
Nathan leaned down closer, his eyes cold and devoid of pity. "You touched a child in my city. There is no mercy for that."
Nathan squeezed the trigger once.
He stood up, snapped the empty magazine from his weapon, slapped a fresh one into place, and walked over to the steel pillar where six-year-old Leo was tied.
Nathan pulled a tactical knife from his vest and gently sliced through the heavy tape binding the boy's wrists and ankles. He carefully peeled the tape from the child's mouth, then removed his own heavy wool-lined trench coat and wrapped it tightly around the trembling boy.
Leo looked up at the giant, intimidating man covered in tactical gear. "Are... are you a police officer?"
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Nathan looked at the small, terrified face, seeing the same innocent eyes he had seen in his own daughter, Ava, on the last morning of her life.
"No, Leo," Nathan said gently, picking the child up in his arms and holding him securely against his chest. "I'm a friend of your grandfather. Let's get you home."
