Chapter 7 - THE HALSTED WAREHOUSE
-7
The 4th and Halsted warehouse was a crumbling industrial relic surrounded by rusted shipping containers and overgrown weeds, sitting right at the edge of the dark, oil-slicked waters of the Chicago River. Inside, however, it was a hive of illegal activity.
Three black Escalades were parked haphazardly across the concrete floor. A dozen of Viktor Vance’s heavily armed enforcers patrolled the perimeter, smoking cigarettes and laughing near a makeshift poker table set up on a stack of wooden crates.
Up on the second-floor metal catwalk, inside a glass-walled office overlooking the main floor, Viktor Vance sat at a mahogany desk counting bundles of banded hundred-dollar bills while two of his top lieutenants stood guard by the door.
Two blocks away, parked behind a derelict lumber yard, the sleek black Maybach cut its headlights.
Inside the quiet cabin, Enzo killed the engine and turned to Adeline in the dim dashboard light. She was sitting in the passenger seat, the Walther resting heavily in her lap, her fingers tracing the metal slide.
“The plan is simple,” Enzo instructed, his voice low and precise. “Marcus and four of my best men will hit the loading dock on the east side to draw their primary security detail. When the gunfire starts, Viktor’s guards on the main floor will rush toward the noise. That leaves the external fire escape on the west side wide open.”
“And we go up the fire escape,” Adeline finished, looking out the windshield toward the glowing windows of the second-floor office.
“We go up the fire escape,” Enzo confirmed. “Once we’re inside the office, Viktor is yours. But remember—he doesn't die until he signs a full confession transferring all his port authority assets and shipping contracts over to my foundation. After that... you can do whatever your father’s memory requires.”
Adeline nodded once. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a drumbeat of war, but her hands were steady. She checked the safety on the Walther one last time, slipped it into the deep pocket of her coat, and opened her door.
“Let’s go settle an account,” she whispered.
The night air was freezing, biting at their faces as they sprinted across the gravel alleyway toward the shadowed shelter of the abandoned lumber yard.
Suddenly, a deafening roar ripped through the night.
Bang! Bang-bang!
Marcus and his team had hit the east loading dock. Shouts echoed across the yard, followed by the shattering of glass and the chaotic stutter of automatic gunfire. True to Enzo’s prediction, the guards stationed near the poker table dropped their cards, drew their submachine guns, and swarmed toward the eastern entrance like hornets kicked out of a nest.
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“Now,” Enzo hissed, grabbing Adeline’s hand and pulling her darting form out into the open toward the west wall.
They reached the rusted iron fire escape in seconds. Enzo vaulted up the first flight with terrifying agility, and Adeline scrambled right behind him, her boots clanking softly against the metal grating as they climbed higher into the dark.
