Chapter 8 - The Reckoning
With a sharp, synchronized motion, I slapped the magnetic breaching charge against the heavy iron service door at the top of the maintenance ladder, while Claire secured the secondary perimeter lock.
"Cover your ears," I murmured.
I thumbed the detonator.
BOOM.
The heavy iron door blew inward in a deafening concussive roar, showering the upper catwalk with sparks and twisted metal. Before the smoke had even cleared, I rolled my wheelchair through the threshold, the Sig Sauer raised and tracking targets with lethal precision.
"Federal police—!" Rossi started to roar, spinning around from the central table.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing around the makeshift poker table in the center of the grain elevator were Salvatore Rossi, his top four enforcers, and Deputy Chief Thomas Vance, who sat frozen with a pen still hovering over a stack of fraudulent transfer deeds.
Rossi's hand instinctively flashed toward the shoulder holster beneath his tailored suit jacket.
Thwip.
My silenced round caught Rossi squarely in the meat of his right shoulder, spinning him hard against a stack of wooden crates with a agonized howl of pain.
"Don't even think about it," I said, my voice cutting through the cavernous space like a razor blade.
The four enforcers froze, their hands hovering over their weapons as they stared down the barrel of my gun—and then noticed Claire standing directly behind my wheelchair, calmly racking the slide of a backup tactical shotgun she had pulled from the duffel bag.
Thomas Vance slowly stood up from his chair, his face pale as death, sweat beading across his forehead despite the freezing temperature in the warehouse.
"A-Adrian..." Vance stammered, holding up his hands defensively. "Son... put the gun down. Let's talk about this. We're family—your father would've wanted—"
"Don't you ever say my father's name," I snarled, wheeling forward until the rubber treads of my chair stopped inches from the edge of the wooden table.
I reached into my tactical vest, pulled out the original, yellowed state transport document Claire had found earlier that day, and slammed it down hard onto the table directly in front of Vance.
"Read it, Thomas," I commanded, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Read what your report covered up twenty-two years ago."
Vance’s eyes scanned the document, his breath hitching as he read the words: Cause of Collision: Intentional Mechanical Tampering.
"You sold him out," I whispered, the rage crystallizing into cold, absolute justice. "You took a bribe from Rossi's uncle to cut the steering linkage on my father's Escalade, and then you buried the investigation so you could climb the ranks of the CPD."
"I had no choice!" Vance shrieked, panic breaking through his polished facade. "The Outfit owned half the city council back then! If I didn't sign off on the accident report, they would've killed my family—!"
"You always have a choice, Thomas," I said quietly.
I didn't pull the trigger. In my world, killing a man like Vance was too easy, too merciful.
Instead, I tapped my comms earpiece twice.
"Marcus. Bring them in."
From the shadows of the lower loading bays, the heavy steel doors groaned open. Marcus—bandaged, bruised, but very much alive—strode into the warehouse flanked by a dozen heavily armed Moretti loyalists, instantly disarming Rossi's remaining enforcers before they could twitch a muscle.
Marcus stepped forward, dropping a heavy digital recording device onto the table in front of Vance.
May you like
"Every word of your confession just broadcasted live to the FBI's internal corruption unit, the state attorney general's office, and every major news outlet in Chicago," Marcus reported with a grim smile. "Your career is over, Deputy Chief. And your prison cell is already waiting."
Vance collapsed back into his chair, utterly broken, burying his face in his trembling hands as federal sirens began to wail in the distance, echoing across the harbor through the sleet-driven night.
