Chapter 7 - The Gathering at the Pier
Pier 42 jutted out into Lake Michigan like a broken, rusted finger.
The warehouse on the pier was a sprawling, three-story brick and corrugated-iron relic from Chicago’s industrial golden age. Rain lashed against the cracked glass skylights, driven by sixty-mile-an-hour gusts off the freezing water. Below the pier, the dark waves smashed violently against the wooden pilings, sending plumes of cold spray into the night air.
It was 8:45 p.m.
I sat in the shadows of the warehouse catwalk, thirty feet above the concrete floor, completely invisible in the darkness. My night-vision optics painted the world in sharp shades of phosphorus green.
Below me, Russell Cade was pacing near a steel conference table set up under the harsh glare of halogen work lights. On the table rested a ruggedized military laptop, open to the Swiss bank portal.
Russell was wearing a tactical vest beneath his dark jacket, his hand repeatedly drifting toward the grip of his concealed weapon. Beside him stood four of his private security contractors, armed with short-barreled carbines, their faces set in stone.
At exactly 8:55 p.m., the heavy roll-up bay doors on the landward side groaned open.
Two black Cadillac Escalades rolled inside, tires crunching over broken glass and industrial debris. The doors shut behind them with a definitive, mechanical thud.
The vehicle doors opened. Six men in dark tactical gear stepped out first, weapons held in the low-ready position, sweeping the rafters. I pressed myself flat against the steel beam, letting the shadow of an overhead crane mask my heat signature.
Then, the rear door of the first Escalade opened.
Julian Vance stepped out into the light.
He was even more imposing in person than in the photograph. The twenty-three years had aged him, but they hadn't softened him. The burn scar across his cheek was a pale, jagged ridge that pulled the corner of his mouth into an eternal, cynical sneer. He carried a silver-tipped walking cane, though his stride was purposeful and strong.
Russell immediately stood to attention, a mixture of deference and nervous calculation in his eyes.
"Julian," Russell said, nodding.
"Russell," Julian’s voice was like grinding stones—deep, gravelly, and completely devoid of warmth. He surveyed the cavernous warehouse with cold nostalgia. "Twenty-three years. It smells exactly the same. Rust, oil, and Lake Michigan rot."
"The setup is ready," Russell said, pointing to the laptop on the table. "The Cayman accounts are synchronized. As soon as Vince enters his biometric key, the funds will sweep instantly. We'll be liquid in four minutes."
Julian walked slowly toward the table, his cane clicking against the concrete floor. "And where is the boy?"
"He's running a few minutes late. He said he was downtown clearing auditor hurdles. He’ll be here."
Julian looked around the empty warehouse, his eyes narrowing. "Where is my daughter?"
Russell hesitated. "Gianna was supposed to ride with Vince."
"She isn't with him," Julian said sharply, turning to face Russell. "I tracked her phone twenty minutes ago. It went dark on the Dan Ryan Expressway. Why was her phone dark, Russell?"
Russell’s jaw tightened. "I don't know, Julian. She might have disabled it for operational security."
"Or Vince figured out the game," Julian snapped, slamming the tip of his cane onto the concrete. The sharp crack echoed through the rafters. "You told me the boy was blind. You told me he spent twenty years weeping over my memory."
"He was blind!" Russell shot back, his voice rising. "He trusted me with his life! He handed me the keys to his estate!"
"Then why did he move his housekeeper and her child out of the estate at 2:00 in the morning?" Julian asked coldly.
Russell froze. "What?"
"My men intercepted a local cellular ping near the Wisconsin border an hour ago," Julian said, his eyes drilling into Russell. "Vince cleared the board, Russell. The child was never at a spa. The woman was never on vacation. Vince has known for at least twenty-four hours."
Panic flared in Russell’s eyes. He spun toward his four security guards. "Weapons up! Sweep the perimeter! Check the side entrances—"
"Save your breath, Russell," a voice cut through the cavernous space.
The sound didn't come from the entrances.
It came from above.
May you like
Every weapon on the warehouse floor snapped upward toward the catwalk. The halogen work lights suddenly flickered, sputtered, and died, plunging the entire warehouse into pitch-black darkness.
***
