Chapter 8 - THE SOUTH CHICAGO DOCKS
The industrial district of South Chicago smelled of rusting iron and stagnant river water.
Heavy fog rolled off Lake Michigan, swallowing the towering shipping cranes in ghostly grey mist.
Our black SUV idled behind a stack of rusted freight containers.
Luca killed the headlights.
Through the windshield, I watched the sprawling dock facility.
Three massive cargo ships dominated the pier.
Dozen of men in black tactical vests paced the loading zones, assault rifles slung across their chests.
“Vincenzo’s private security,” Luca whispered, checking the magazine of his submachine gun.
“They’re unloading the midnight containers right now.”
I sat in the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I wore an oversized black tactical jacket and combat boots that felt ten pounds heavier than my maid’s uniform.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, gripping a encrypted radio in my sweaty palm.
“Marco hits the north gate to draw their heavy reinforcement,” Luca instructed, never taking his eyes off the perimeter.
“I go through the main warehouse to secure the master ledger.”
“And me?” I swallowed hard.
“You stay in the vehicle, keep the engine running, and monitor their radio frequencies.”
“No,” I shook my head stubbornly.
“I came this far, Luca. If I stay here, I’m a sitting duck.”
Luca turned, his dark eyes burning into mine.
“If you come with me, the odds of survival drop by fifty percent.”
“My mother’s life is tied up in this syndicate's web,” I replied steadily.
“I’m going.”
Luca stared at me a moment longer.
Then he sighed, reaching out to adjust the strap of my tactical vest.
“Stay two steps behind my left shoulder. If I say run, you run. Understand?”
“Understood.”
We slipped out of the SUV into the freezing November fog.
The damp air bit into my cheeks like needles.
We crept along the shadow of a towering steel container, moving toward the cavernous loading bay of Warehouse 4.
Inside, harsh fluorescent lights hummed above rows of stacked wooden crates.
Voices echoed from the far end of the warehouse.
“Vincenzo wants those secondary ledgers loaded onto the Cayman transport by two o’clock!” a gruff voice barked.
Luca motioned for me to halt behind a stack of industrial pallets.
He peered around the corner of the metal crates.
Three guards stood near a heavy iron desk, arguing over shipping manifests.
Luca drew his suppressed pistol.
*Puff. Puff. Puff.*
Three silenced shots cracked through the cavernous space.
All three guards collapsed instantly without a sound.
“Move,” Luca hissed, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the desk.
I rushed forward, my eyes scanning the scattered papers on the metal surface.
Right there, glowing under the harsh desk lamp, was a red binder labeled: *MORETTI FOUNDATION LAUNDERING SCHEME - MASTER KEY.*
I reached out and grabbed it.
Suddenly, a loud alarm klaxon shrieked overhead, bathing the entire warehouse in blinding red emergency light.
A voice roared over the loudspeaker:
May you like
“Intruders in Warehouse 4! Kill on sight!”
Luca cursed violently, pulling me behind a concrete pillar as a hail of automatic gunfire chewed through the metal pallets above us.
