Chapter 3 - The Cold Flight through Highland Park
The rain outside was no longer just a storm; it was a wall of black water that erased the lights of the city and turned the long, winding driveway of the Costello estate into a river of gray mud.
Fiona ran through the kitchen gardens, her white nursing shoes sinking into the sodden turf, her arms wrapped tightly around Arthur’s small body. She had wrapped him in three thick wool blankets from the linen closet, his head resting against her collarbone, his breathing shallow and rattling but steady.
The Glock 19 was tucked into the waistband of her scrub trousers, the metal cold and heavy against her skin, a reminder of the line she had crossed.
Behind her, the high-intensity floodlights of the mansion flared to life, their bright, blue-white beams cutting through the trees like searchlights in a prison yard. She could hear the deep, synchronized baying of the estate’s guard dogs—the two Rottweilers Victoria usually kept locked in the kennels near the eastern gate.
“Fiona…” Arthur whimpered against her neck, his small fingers clutching her wet hair. “The Sandman is coming.”
“The Sandman isn't coming back, Arthur,” Fiona whispered, her legs aching as she sprinted toward the low stone wall that separated the property from the public beach along Lake Michigan. “I broke his needles. We’re going to see your dad. I promise you.”
She reached the perimeter wall, her breath ragged, her lungs burning from the cold air. The wall was four feet high, built of rough-hewn granite blocks that were slick with moss and ice. She set Arthur down on the top ledge, her hands trembling as she climbed up beside him, her eyes scanning the dark expanse of the beach below.
A sharp, brilliant beam of light hit her directly in the face.
“Stop right there, nurse,” a voice bellowed from the trees behind her.
It was Marcus. He had a thick white bandage taped across his broken nose, his face contorted into a mask of pure, murderous hatred as he leveled a silver-plated revolver at her chest. Beside him stood two more guards, their dark coats shining in the rain, their hands holding the straining leashes of the Rottweilers.
“Give us the boy, Fiona,” Marcus said, taking a slow, heavy step forward through the mud. “Victoria says we can let you walk out of here if you leave the kid. You can take the fifty grand and go back to your hospital. Nobody has to know about the pillow.”
Fiona looked at the three men, then down at Arthur’s pale, trusting face beneath the wool blankets. She knew how the Costello organization worked. If she left the boy, Arthur would be dead before the sun came up, his death recorded as an unfortunate neurological collapse. And she would be found three days later in a drainage ditch near Calumet City with a single round through the back of her skull.
“If you want the boy, Marcus,” Fiona said, her voice dropping into that cold, defiant register that had first caught Dominic’s attention in the study, “you’re going to have to shoot through me. And I don't think Dominic is going to be very happy when he finds out you used his son for target practice.”
Before Marcus could pull the trigger, the dark roar of a high-performance engine cut through the sound of the waves.
A massive, armored black Mercedes G-Wagon burst through the wooden privacy fence fifty yards down the beach, its tires throwing up huge plumes of sand and lake water as it skidded to a halt directly below the stone wall.
The driver’s door flew open.
May you like
Dominic Costello stepped out into the downpour. He wasn't wearing his charcoal suit jacket; he was in a dark silk shirt, his hair wild and wet, his icy blue eyes locked onto the scene on the wall with a lethal, terrifying clarity that instantly stopped the guards in their tracks.
“Marcus,” Dominic said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carried over the thunder like a death sentence. “Put the gun down before I take your arms off.”
