Chapter 5 - Shadows Over Lake Shore Drive
The world dissolved into splintered oak, raining glass, and deafening thunder.
“Down!” Adrian roared.
In a fraction of a second, Adrian launched himself forward, tackling my mother
and me over the back of the heavy wooden pew just as a hail of high-caliber
bullets chewed through the varnished wood above our heads.
Splinters rained down like shrapnel. The holy statues along the walls were torn
to dust, plaster showering over us like bitter snow. The air filled with the
caustic stench of burned cordite and ozone.
My mother cried out, curling into a ball on the floorboards. I clutched the
velvet box containing the second swallow to my chest, my heart beating so hard
against my ribs I thought it would burst.
Adrian was already moving. He was flat against the floor, drawing his Glock with
terrifying composure. He peeked around the heavy carved end of the pew, fired
three rapid, deafening shots, and pulled back just as a burst of return fire
shredded the kneeling rail.
A body crashed through the shattered window frame, hitting the floor with a wet
thud.
“Romano’s clean-up crew,” Adrian hissed, his voice lethal and focused. “They
tracked your mother’s trail from the apartment.”
“How did they find us so fast?” I screamed over the gunfire.
“They didn't track her,” Adrian said, glancing down at the velvet box in my
hand. “The box has an RFID tracker sewn into the lining. Don Romano knew she
would go for it the moment she ran.”
He snatched the velvet box from my fingers, ripped the silver swallow from the
velvet cushion, and shoved the precious bird into my apron pocket. Then he
hurled the velvet box across the nave toward the far western transept.
Instantly, the concentration of gunfire shifted, chewing into the confessional
booths thirty yards away.
“Move!” Adrian grabbed my mother by the arm, half-lifting her frail body, while
his other hand clamped onto my wrist. “To the crypt stairs! Behind the altar!”
We scrambled on our hands and knees through the debris. Glass ground beneath my
palms, cutting into my skin, but I felt no pain—only pure, animal panic. Another
volley of bullets ripped through the altar cloth, sending the brass crucifix
tumbling to the marble steps with a hollow, dying ring.
Adrian spun around, leaning against the edge of the marble pulpit. He raised his
weapon with both hands and fired four steady, rhythmically spaced shots.
Two men in black tactical gear dropped in the center aisle, their weapons
clattering away.
Adrian didn't wait to see them bleed. He shoved us through an arched wooden door
behind the sacristy.
Inside was a narrow, spiral stone staircase plunging into pitch-black darkness.
The damp, chilled air of old stone and ancient earth rose to meet us.
“Go down!” Adrian ordered, slamming the heavy iron door behind us and sliding a
massive forged-iron deadbolt into place.
The heavy wood shuddered immediately under the impact of heavy shoulders and
shotgun blasts from the other side, but the sixteenth-century ironwork held.
“There’s a service tunnel at the bottom,” my mother panted, leaning heavily
against the curved stone wall as we descended the treacherous spiral steps.
“Thomas built it... during the blizzard of ’79. It connects to the old brewery
cellar on Willow Street.”
“Good,” Adrian said, his flashlight beam slicing through the blackness,
illuminating our hurried descent. “My driver is circling the block. If we make
the street, we have a clear run to the highway.”
We hit the earthen floor of the crypt. The basement was lined with brick vaults,
ancient brass plaques, and forgotten wine racks. My mother led the way with
astonishing speed, her adrenaline overcoming the weakness in her joints. She
stopped in front of a rusted iron grating set into the brick floor.
“Claire,” she said, her breath whistling in her throat. “The latch. Under the
left hinge.”
I dropped to my knees, feeling blindly through the dust and cobwebs until my
fingers found a cold, square notch behind the iron plate. I pushed it upward
with all my strength.
A heavy click echoed through the crypt. The grating popped loose.
Adrian grabbed the iron bars and hoisted the heavy grate open with one arm.
“Ladies first. Drop and crawl. It’s four feet high.”
I helped my mother down into the concrete conduit, then scrambled in behind her.
Adrian dropped in last, pulling the grating back down into place until the
hidden latch locked with a heavy snap.
Above us, the iron door at the top of the stairs blew inward with an explosive
roar.
We crawled through the damp, narrow conduit for what felt like miles, our hands
scraping against rough concrete, our breathing echoing off the low ceiling.
After five minutes of claustrophobic terror, the tunnel sloped upward,
terminating in a rotten wooden trapdoor.
Adrian pushed the trapdoor open with his shoulder, emerging into an abandoned,
rain-soaked alley behind a closed microbrewery on Willow Street.
Waiting at the curb, with its hazard lights blinking rhythmically in the fog,
was a second black DeLuca vehicle—an armored Suburban.
Vince leaped out of the driver’s seat, an assault rifle slung across his chest.
“Boss! Get in! Romano’s men have three cruisers converging on the district!”
Adrian shoved my mother and me into the back leather seat, leaping in beside us
and slamming the reinforced door shut.
“Rockford,” Adrian barked. “Take the I-90 west. Run every red light. If anyone
tries to intercept, run them off the bridge.”
Vince floored the gas. The Suburban lurched forward, its massive engine roaring
as we exploded out of the alley and fishtailed onto Lake Shore Drive.
Behind us, the skyline of Chicago rose into the storm like a jagged wall of
black glass.
I leaned back against the leather seat, trembling from head to foot, clutching
my mother’s frail hand in mine.
Adrian sat beside me, his breathing finally slowing, his face splattered with
soot and raindrops. He pulled a fresh magazine from his vest, slapped it into
his pistol with a crisp snap, and tucked the weapon into his waistband.
Then, he turned his head and looked at me.
In the faint green light of the dashboard, his gray eyes were intense,
unreadable, and devastatingly close.
“You held your ground back there, Little Sparrow,” he murmured.
I looked down at my hands. They were covered in dust, soot, and minor cuts from
the glass. But in my right pocket, safe against my hip, rested the second silver
swallow.
“My father gave me that name,” I whispered, meeting his gaze. “Only people who
love me are allowed to use it.”
A faint, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile touched the corner of Adrian’s
May you like
mouth.
“Then I’ll make sure I earn the right before morning,” he said.
