Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Dark
The thunderstorm hit Chicago at two in the morning with the ferocity of a freight train.
Sheets of rain lashed against the slate roof of the Calder estate, rattling the leaded windows and drowning out the low rumble of thunder rolling across Lake Michigan.
In the apartment above the garage, Nora bolted awake.
The sound hadn't come from the thunder. It had been a sharp, metallic scrape, followed by the dull thud of heavy boot leather against the wooden steps of her exterior stairs.
Her breath caught in her throat. The silver medallion rested on her bedside table, its cold chain gleaming faintly in the flash of lightning.
She swung her legs over the bed, every instinct screaming at her to run. She crept into the small adjoining bedroom where Lucy lay sound asleep, hugging Captain Carrot beneath a pink quilted blanket.
*Click.*
The doorknob of the apartment’s exterior door slowly turned.
Nora’s lungs locked. She reached toward her nightstand, grabbed the silver medallion, and pressed the center indentation twice. A tiny red LED light pulsed once on the medallion’s rim, confirming the silent distress signal had fired.
*Sixty seconds,* Vincent had told her. *Every unit on the estate.*
The door suddenly groaned inward. A crowbar shattered the deadbolt with a sickening crack of splintering oak.
Two men slipped inside, dripping wet in black rain jackets and balaclavas.
“Well, well,” a familiar, nasal voice sneered through the dark. “Look at the palace the whore got for herself.”
The lead man ripped his mask off.
It was Greg. His face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot and manic, carrying the unmistakable stench of cheap whiskey and desperation. Behind him stood a stocky, scarred thug holding a silenced automatic pistol—a Valenti soldier.
“Greg,” Nora gasped, backing up until her spine hit Lucy’s bedroom door, effectively blocking the entrance with her body. “Get out! If security finds you here, they’ll kill you!”
“Security?” Greg laughed bitterly, advancing across the living room. “Your billionaire boyfriend’s guards are down at the south gate dealing with a burning delivery van my buddies set on fire. The perimeter is wide open, sweetheart.”
“What do you want?” Nora choked out, keeping her hands behind her back to protect the doorway.
“I want my cut!” Greg hissed, stepping close enough that his spit flecked her cheek. He grabbed her upper arm with bruising force. “You took my kid. You’re living in high-class luxury while I’m hiding in roach motels! You’re coming with us. Both of you. Valenti is gonna trade you and that brat for the Southside rail yards. Calder’s gonna sign over fifty million dollars to get his little plaything back.”
“I’m not his plaything!” Nora fought back, kicking violently at Greg’s shins. “Let me go, you bastard!”
“Shut her up!” the armed thug barked, stepping forward to strike Nora with the butt of the gun.
Before the weapon could fall, the entire wall of windows along the terrace shattered inward in an explosion of tempered glass and rain.
A ninety-pound black-and-tan missile vaulted through the broken frame.
Bishop hit the armed man in mid-air with a ferocious, guttural roar. Jaws locked around the gunman’s wrist, bone snapping loudly beneath the pressure of four hundred pounds per square inch. The gun clattered across the floorboards as the man shrieked in agony, crashing backward onto the shattered glass.
“What the f—” Greg shrieked, letting go of Nora in terror.
Out of the pouring rain on the terrace stepped Vincent Calder.
He wore no coat, only a black tactical vest over a dark shirt, soaked completely through. In his right hand was a matte-black custom 1911 pistol. His face was entirely devoid of human emotion—he was the embodiment of death, carved out of stone and cold Chicago rain.
“Let go of her,” Vincent said. His voice was shockingly quiet, cutting through the thunder and the screams of the mauled thug.
Greg panicked. Seeing the dropped gun on the floor, he lunged for it.
Vincent didn't flinch. In a blur of motion, he crossed the room, his heavy tactical boot stomping down on Greg’s outstretched fingers.
The sickening crunch of shattered metacarpals made Nora gasp. Greg shrieked, writhing on the floor, clutching his mangled hand.
“You’re Gregory Bennett,” Vincent said smoothly, looking down at the writhing man as if observing an insect beneath his heel.
“Don't kill me!” Greg sobbed, tears and rain mixing on the floorboards. “Valenti paid me! It was Valenti’s idea! He said Calder wouldn't hurt a woman’s ex-husband—he said you were soft now!”
Vincent bent down, grabbing Greg by his collar and hoisting him six inches off the floor with one arm. The sheer physical power was terrifying.
“Dominic Valenti made a tactical miscalculation,” Vincent whispered directly into Greg’s ear. “He thought Nora was my weakness.”
Vincent pressed the cold muzzle of the .45 against Greg’s forehead.
“Nora isn't my weakness, Gregory. She’s the only reason you’re still drawing breath right now. Because I will not execute a piece of garbage in front of her child.”
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Frank and four heavily armed guards burst into the room, their rifles sweeping the interior.
“Boss!” Frank called out.
“Clean this up,” Vincent ordered coldly, tossing Greg onto the floor like a sack of trash. “Hand Bennett over to the Chicago precinct commander. Give him the surveillance footage of the home invasion, assault, and attempted kidnapping. Ensure he gets thirty years without parole in Stateville. If any judge attempts bail, let them know I will consider it a personal insult.”
“And Valenti’s man?” Frank asked, nodding toward the whimpering thug pinned beneath Bishop’s growling jaws.
May you like
“Tell Dominic Valenti that I am coming to see him tomorrow morning,” Vincent said. “Tell him to pick a cemetery.”
***
