Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Syndicate
The private armory in the basement of the Voss estate smelled of gun oil, cold concrete, and old copper.
While Maria tended to Lily in the reinforced panic room upstairs—securing the steel doors and feeding her hot cocoa—Damian and I stood before a sprawling digital tactical map spread across a heavy oak workbench. Dozens of red blinking dots lit up the screen across downtown Chicago.
“Marcus has barricaded himself inside the shipping yards on Pier 42,” Damian said, tapping a touchscreen console. “It’s his primary laundering hub. If we go through official channels, half the department will tip him off before our tactical units even roll out of the precinct.”
“Which is why we aren't calling the precinct,” I replied, loading an extra magazine into my vest harness. “We use my federal clearance to bypass the outer perimeter gates, and your underground access codes to take the loading docks from the blind side.”
Damian stopped sliding his combat knife into its ankle sheath. He looked up, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air between us crackle.
“You trust me?” he asked softly. “After everything? After knowing I ran these docks for a decade?”
“I trust that you want Marcus dead as much as I want him behind bars,” I answered evenly. “And right now, the math aligns.”
A dry, dangerous smile touched the corners of Damian’s mouth. “God, Evelyn. If we survive this, you should quit the Bureau and run my corporate security division. You’d make a fortune.”
“Let’s focus on staying alive past midnight, Voss.”
We moved out in Damian’s matte-black armored Mercedes, cutting through the freezing Chicago sleet like a phantom. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and gray concrete. My mind raced through the tactical variables: three entry points, zero backup, and a traitor who knew every trick in the book.
Ten minutes later, the towering rusted cranes of Pier 42 loomed out of the darkness like iron skeletons against the bruised winter sky.
The security gates were unmanned—Marcus had already pulled his outer guards in to form a turtle defense inside Warehouse B.
“Cut the lights,” I whispered as we killed the engine fifty yards from the main loading bay.
We slipped out into the freezing downpour. The sleet bit into our skin, but adrenaline kept the cold at bay. We moved in absolute sync, years of tactical training on my part matching the lethal, calculated efficiency of a man who had survived the ruthless underworld wars of the Midwest.
We reached the side personnel door of Warehouse B. It was chained from the inside, fitted with a digital keypad lock.
I pulled a micro-decoder kit from my tactical pouch, plugging it into the data port beneath the keypad.
“Three seconds,” I muttered, watching the code strings scroll across the tiny screen.
“Take your time,” Damian murmured, covering our rear with his rifle raised, his eyes scanning the dark shadows of the container stacks. “The night is still young.”
Click.
May you like
The heavy steel door popped open with a pneumatic hiss.
We slipped inside into the cavernous, echoing dark of the warehouse.
