Chapter 7 - THE VAULT AND THE VIPER
The secondary tunnel was even darker and colder than the first.
Marco led the way, limping heavily, clutching his bleeding shoulder. I followed close behind, holding Henry’s hand in my left and the suppressed pistol in my right.
"The vault is just ahead," Marco wheezed, pausing to catch his breath against the damp brick wall. "Luca uses it to store untraceable cash for emergencies. The walls are three feet of reinforced steel. Nobody gets in without the biometric scan."
"If it needs a biometric scan, how are we supposed to get Henry inside?" I asked, panic flaring.
"Luca isn't stupid," Marco grinned weakly. "He programmed Henry’s thumbprint into the system the day the kid was born. It’s his inheritance."
We reached the end of the tunnel, stopping in front of a massive, circular steel door that looked like it belonged on a submarine. A small, glowing green digital pad rested beside it.
"Henry, buddy," Marco said softly, dropping to one knee. "I need you to press your thumb right here."
Henry looked at me for reassurance. I nodded, offering a brave smile.
Henry pressed his small thumb against the glass pad. The machine beeped, a cheerful, incongruous sound in the dark tunnel.
Access Granted.
The heavy steel bolts groaned, and the massive door slowly swung open, revealing a brilliantly lit, sterile white room lined with safe deposit boxes and a comfortable leather couch.
"Henry," I said, dropping to my knees and grabbing his small shoulders. "I need you to stay in here. Do not open the door for anyone. Not even if you hear my voice. You only open this door if your dad tells you to. Do you understand?"
"Are you going to be okay, Emily?" Henry asked, his lip quivering.
"I'm going to bring your dad home," I promised, kissing his forehead firmly.
I pushed him gently into the vault and hit the heavy red LOCK button on the inside control panel. The massive steel door hissed shut, sealing Henry safely inside.
I turned back to Marco, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
"Okay," I said, gripping the pistol tighter. "Take me to Falcone."
Marco led us up a narrow service staircase that opened into a desolate, rain-slicked alleyway on the South Side. A beat-up, unmarked black sedan was idling near the dumpsters.
"Get in," Marco ordered, sliding painfully into the passenger seat. "You're driving."
I jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the car into gear. "Where is the compound?"
"Ten blocks east," Marco directed, pulling a small, complicated-looking electronic device from his jacket. It had several antennas and a digital screen flashing rapidly. "It's an old meatpacking plant. Falcone bought the whole block."
I hit the gas, the sedan tearing through the empty, rain-swept streets of Chicago.
"What is that?" I asked, glancing at the device in Marco's lap.
"It's a localized signal jammer," Marco explained, his fingers flying across the buttons. "If I can get within fifty yards of the compound's main server, I can broadcast a frequency that will block the remote detonation signal for the C4."
"And if you can't?"
Marco didn't answer. He didn't have to.
We crested a hill, and the massive, sprawling complex of the old meatpacking plant came into view. It was surrounded by high chain-link fences topped with razor wire. Dozens of heavily armed men patrolled the perimeter.
But what terrified me most were the three black SUVs parked haphazardly near the main entrance.
"Those are Luca's cars," Marco pointed out grimly. "He's already inside."
"We're too late," I gasped, slamming on the brakes as we approached the perimeter.
"No," Marco said, his eyes scanning the defenses. "Falcone won't blow the building until he knows Luca is in the main office. He wants to make sure he's dead."
"How do we get close enough to jam the signal?" I asked, looking at the army of guards. "We can't fight through them."
Marco looked at me, a strange, calm resolve settling over his pale face.
"We aren't going to fight them," Marco said. "I am."
Before I could process his words, Marco reached over and grabbed the suppressed pistol from my lap.
"Marco, what are you doing?!" I yelled, grabbing for the gun.
"Saving my daughters," Marco said softly.
He opened the car door and stepped out into the pouring rain.
He didn't try to sneak. He didn't try to hide.
Marco raised the pistol in the air and fired three rapid shots into the sky.
The loud cracks echoed across the empty street, instantly drawing the attention of every single guard at the Falcone compound.
"Hey!" Marco roared at the top of his lungs, stepping into the glaring spotlight of the main gate. "I'm Marco Rossi! Tell Don Falcone I brought the head of his rival!"
The guards immediately raised their rifles, shouting orders in Italian, swarming toward the gate to surround the lone, bleeding man.
"Marco, no!" I screamed from inside the car, horrified by his suicidal diversion.
Marco glanced back at the car, gave a microscopic nod, and then turned his attention back to the guards.
The diversion worked perfectly. The guards at the side entrance abandoned their posts, rushing to secure the high-value target at the front gate.
"Go, Emily," I whispered to myself, throwing the car into gear.
I killed the headlights and drove the sedan quietly down the side alley, slipping through the now-unguarded secondary loading dock entrance.
I parked the car in the shadows and slipped inside the massive, echoing warehouse.
The air smelled of old blood and ammonia. Massive metal meathooks hung from overhead tracks, casting eerie, swaying shadows in the dim emergency lighting.
I needed to find the main office. I needed to find Luca before Falcone realized Marco was a distraction.
I crept silently through the labyrinth of rusted machinery.
Suddenly, a voice echoed from a catwalk high above me.
"You're a predictable fool, Luca."
It was a raspy, arrogant voice. Don Falcone.
I pressed myself against a cold metal pillar, peering up into the darkness.
Standing on the catwalk, illuminated by a single, harsh overhead light, was Luca. He was surrounded by four heavily armed guards, his hands empty, staring down a man sitting in a plush leather wheelchair.
Don Falcone was older than I imagined, frail and oxygen-dependent, but his eyes burned with a malicious, terrifying intelligence.
"You walked right into my home," Falcone wheezed, smiling a terrible smile. "Just like your father did."
"My father came to negotiate peace," Luca said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of controlled fury. "I came to end this."
"You came to die," Falcone corrected, holding up a small, black remote control with a single red button. "This building is wired with enough C4 to level a city block. The moment I press this button, you and your loyal dogs turn to ash."
"If you press it, you die too," Luca pointed out calmly.
Falcone laughed, a wet, hacking sound. "I'm seventy-eight years old with terminal lung cancer, Luca. I was dead six months ago. But my legacy? My family taking control of Chicago? That lives forever."
Falcone raised his thumb, hovering over the red button.
"Say hello to your father for me."
My heart stopped.
Marco wasn't close enough. The jammer wouldn't work.
I didn't have a gun. I didn't have a plan.
But I saw a heavy, rusted iron chain hanging from the meat track directly above Falcone's wheelchair. The chain was secured to a massive industrial winch on the wall right next to me.
I didn't think.
I grabbed the heavy metal lever on the winch and yanked it downward with all my body weight.
With a deafening, metallic screech, the winch released.
The heavy iron chain above plummeted downward.
It didn't hit Falcone.
It smashed violently into the metal catwalk directly beneath his wheelchair, shattering the rusted grating.
Falcone screamed in surprise as his wheelchair tipped forward, plunging through the broken catwalk.
He didn't fall to the floor. The wheelchair caught on the jagged metal edges, leaving Falcone dangling precariously twenty feet in the air.
The black remote control slipped from his withered fingers, tumbling through the air, and shattered into a dozen pieces on the concrete floor below.
The bomb was neutralized.
Luca didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.
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He moved with explosive, terrifying speed, lunging forward and snapping the neck of the closest guard before the man even realized the remote was gone.
The fight had begun.
