Chapter 7 - THE RIDE IN THE POLICE CRUISER
They slammed us against the brick wall, zip-tying our wrists with brutal efficiency.
The lead officer, a thick-necked man with a corrupt smirk, snatched the red ledger from my hands. He flipped it open, nodded in satisfaction, and tucked it into his jacket.
"Luciano sends his regards," the cop whispered to Anthony.
They shoved us into the back of the cruiser. The plastic seats were freezing. The metal cage separating us from the front felt like a coffin lid snapping shut.
The cruiser sped away from the restaurant, ignoring red lights. But they weren't heading toward the police precinct. They were driving toward the industrial district—the abandoned meatpacking plants on the edge of the city.
"Anthony," I whispered frantically, fighting against the plastic ties. "They’re taking us to Luciano. They have the ledger. We have nothing left."
Anthony was staring out the window, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might break.
"Yes, we do," Anthony said quietly.
He shifted his body awkwardly, reaching his bound hands into his boot. With a sickening pop, he dislocated his left thumb, pulling his hand free from the zip-tie with a suppressed grunt of agony.
I stared in horror as he quickly untied his other hand, then reached over and cut my ties with a small pocket knife he had concealed.
"When the car stops," Anthony whispered, his eyes dark and focused. "You run to the right. Find a door. Do not look back."
The cruiser jolted as it turned down a gravel road, pulling up to a massive, rust-covered warehouse.
The two corrupt cops put the car in park.
The moment the lead cop opened the back door to drag us out, Anthony exploded forward.
He drove both feet into the door, slamming it into the cop’s face with a sickening crunch. The second cop reached for his gun, but Anthony lunged over the seat, wrapping his hands around the man’s throat and slamming his head against the steering wheel.
"Run, Claire!" Anthony yelled.
I threw my door open and sprinted into the freezing night. My lungs burned. I dodged around stacks of wooden pallets and rusted machinery, making my way to the side of the massive warehouse.
I found a small, reinforced metal door. It was locked.
Through the dirty, high windows, I could see the glow of a halogen work light inside.
I dragged a wooden crate to the wall, climbed up, and peered through the grime-covered glass.
My heart stopped.
In the center of the vast, empty warehouse, tied back-to-back on wooden chairs, were Mrs. Russo and my mother.
My mother’s face was bruised, her hands bound tightly with duct tape. Mrs. Russo—Elena—looked defiant, her chin held high despite the blood on her collar.
Pacing in front of them was Luciano.
And standing directly behind my mother, pressing the barrel of a fresh gun against the back of her head, was Frank. He was bleeding through his jacket from the shotgun blast, breathing heavily.
"Where are they?!" Luciano yelled, holding up the red ledger the cops must have handed off to him moments ago. "The cops said they brought the girl!"
"They’re outside," Frank gasped, his eyes wild. "Kill the women now, Luciano. Finish it."
I couldn't wait for Anthony. I couldn't run away.
I picked up a heavy brick from the gravel, smashed the glass of the window, and reached inside, unlatching the window frame.
I dropped down into the warehouse, the glass crunching loudly under my shoes.
Everyone turned.
I stepped into the light, my hands raised, walking straight toward the men who wanted me dead.
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"Let them go," I said, my voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "You wanted me. You have me."
TITLE: THE FIRE IN THE WAREHOUSE
