Chapter 7 - THE HEAVY COAT
The echo of the sniper rifle faded, replaced by the terrifying silence of the dark loft.
Sadi lay pinned beneath Roman's heavy body. He was shielding her completely.
"Derek?" Sadi whispered, her voice trembling.
She peered around Roman's shoulder.
Derek lay motionless on the concrete floor, a dark pool of blood spreading rapidly from his chest.
He was dead. The Morettis hadn't sent him just to deliver a message; they had used him as bait to verify the safe house, and then discarded him the moment the message was delivered.
"Stay low," Roman hissed, rolling off her and crawling toward a heavy steel weapons locker in the corner.
He punched in a code, grabbing a tactical shotgun and a heavy, bulletproof Kevlar coat.
He threw the coat to Sadi.
"Put it on," Roman ordered.
"What about you?" Sadi asked, struggling to slide her arms into the heavy, stiff material. It swallowed her emerald dress entirely.
"I've survived worse," Roman lied, his face tight with pain from his bleeding side.
Answer One: Roman’s uncle had orchestrated the sniper attack to wipe them out before they could reach Union Station.
Open Two: If they were trapped in a loft with a sniper outside, how could they possibly escape with the key and the map?
Roman grabbed a smoke grenade from the locker.
"When I pop this, we run for the freight elevator," Roman instructed. "Don't stop. Don't look back."
He pulled the pin and tossed the canister into the center of the room. Thick, blinding white smoke instantly filled the loft.
"Go!" Roman shouted.
Sadi scrambled to her feet, clutching her child's drawing and the tarnished bracelet in her pocket.
They sprinted blindly through the smoke, the sniper firing two more blind shots through the window that sparked harmlessly against the concrete pillars.
They reached the elevator, slammed the gate shut, and rode it down to the basement garage.
"We need a new car," Roman said, tossing the keys to the black SUV away. "It's tracked."
He walked over to a dusty, unremarkable sedan parked in the corner. He smashed the window with the butt of his shotgun, reached in, and hotwired it in under ten seconds.
"Get in," Roman coughed, leaning against the steering wheel.
Sadi climbed into the passenger seat.
Roman sped out of the garage, blending into the late-night Chicago traffic.
The drive to Union Station was agonizingly tense. Roman was fading fast, the blood loss taking its toll.
"Roman, you need a hospital," Sadi pleaded, watching his grip slip on the steering wheel.
"We need the box," Roman replied stubbornly. "If my uncle gets it, he buys the police commissioner, the judges... he buys the city. I won't let him destroy what my family built."
They pulled up to the rear service entrance of Union Station.
The massive, cavernous train terminal was mostly empty at 3:00 AM, echoing with the sound of distant maintenance crews.
"The old bank lockers are in the sub-basement," Roman whispered, handing Sadi the heavy silver watch he had given her at the country club.
"Why are you giving this back to me?" Sadi asked.
Reversal: The silver watch wasn't just a tracker or a piece of jewelry.
"It's a detonator," Roman confessed quietly. "If you turn the dial past the twelve, it triggers an explosive charge inside the watch. Enough to take out a room."
He looked at her, his eyes filled with a dark, desperate sorrow.
"If I don't make it out of that sub-basement, Sadi... you use it. You blow the box, you blow the money, and you walk away."
Sadi stared at the watch, her hands shaking. "I'm not leaving you behind."
"You do what I say," Roman commanded softly, touching her cheek.
They descended the concrete stairs into the bowels of the station.
The sub-basement was a maze of old brick corridors and rusted iron gates.
They reached the final gate. Behind it was a wall of antique, brass safety deposit boxes.
But they were not alone.
Standing in front of the boxes was an older man in a tailored camel-hair coat. Roman’s uncle, Salvatore Rossi.
Flanking him were four heavily armed Moretti enforcers.
And kneeling on the floor, weeping, was Chloe.
"You're late, Roman," Salvatore smiled, stepping forward.
Before Roman could raise his shotgun, Salvatore kicked something across the floor.
It slid to a halt at Roman’s feet.
It was a heavy, blood-stained leather coat.
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"Do you recognize it, Roman?" Salvatore mocked. "It's the coat your father was wearing the night he was murdered."
Cliffhanger: Salvatore smiled wickedly. "The Morettis didn't kill your father, Roman. I did. Because he was going to give the empire to a weak fool like you."
