Chapter 3 - The Broken Link
The rain was coming down in sheets as my armored Cadillac Escalade tore through the iron gates of the estate, its twin-turbo V8 engine roaring into the dark forest roads of Lake Forest.
Marcus was driving, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel, while I sat in the passenger seat, monitoring Julian’s GPS transponder on my tactical laptop.
"He's heading south toward the industrial district near the Chicago River," Marcus reported, watching the red dot flashing on the screen. "He's driving like a man who knows he's caught."
"Julian doesn't know hardware," I said coldly, watching the rain streak across the windshield. "He's a corporate lawyer. He couldn't install an M.E.S. high-frequency unit if you gave him the manual. Someone gave him that bypass code."
"You think he's a runner, or a decoy?" Marcus asked.
"We'll find out in three minutes," I replied, checking the magazine on my .45.
Julian's black Mercedes turned sharply into an abandoned rail yard along the riverbank. The area was surrounded by rusted shipping containers, overgrown weeds, and rotting timber docks.
Marcus slammed on the brakes, drifting the heavy Escalade across the wet gravel, blocking the only exit out of the yard.
Julian’s Mercedes was idling fifty yards away near an old brick warehouse, its headlights cutting through the dark fog.
I opened the passenger door, stepping out into the freezing rain, my long dark trench coat snapping in the wind. Marcus flanked me on the left, his sidearm drawn and low.
"Julian!" I called out, my voice cutting through the sound of the falling rain. "Get out of the car!"
There was no answer from the Mercedes. The driver's door remained closed. The engine was still idling softly.
I signaled to Marcus. He moved around the rear bumper of the Mercedes while I approached the driver’s side window, keeping my pistol pointed at the glass.
I reached out with my left hand and yanked the driver's door open.
"Julian, you have five seconds to—"
I stopped.
Julian wasn't holding a gun. He wasn't reaching for a phone.
My younger brother was slumped sideways across the leather steering wheel, his head resting against the horn mount. His eyes were wide, glassy, and fixed on nothing.
A single, neat entry wound sat directly in the center of his forehead, surrounded by a faint ring of powder burns.
His right hand was pinned beneath his chest, clutching a thick manila envelope sealed with dark red wax.
"Boss! Clear!" Marcus shouted from the passenger side, his gun raised, scanning the dark warehouse shadows around us. "Sniper? Or close range?"
I reached down, pressing two fingers against Julian’s neck. His skin was still warm.
"Close range," I whispered, my heart aching with a sudden, violent mix of grief and fury. "Execution style. He was killed less than ten minutes ago."
I pulled the blood-stained manila envelope from beneath my brother's lifeless chest.
The red wax seal bore the impression of a signet ring—a ring worn exclusively by the inner council of the Vance Syndicate, the rival criminal organization formerly led by my late wife’s father.
I broke the seal, pulling out a stack of financial documents and private bank records.
Glancing through the pages under the rain-streaked light of my flashlight, my breath hitched in my throat.
Julian hadn't been stealing from me.
These documents were wire transfer receipts showing that over the last six months, thirty million dollars had been funneled out of Moretti Estate Systems into an offshore account in Grand Cayman.
The account owner wasn't Julian.
It was Elena Vance—my late wife's sister, who was currently sitting inside my mansion, living under my roof, and holding my children.
"Marcus," I rasped, my voice thick with a terrifying, absolute fury. "We need to go back. Right now."
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"What about Julian, boss?" Marcus asked, looking down at my dead brother.
"Leave the car," I commanded, stepping back toward the Escalade, my eyes turning to ice. "The person who murdered my brother is still inside my house."
