Chapter 9 - The Heart of the Machine
-9-
The snow-whipped industrial docks of South Chicago loomed out of the darkness like a rusted graveyard of monoliths. Towering shipping cranes swung silently in the freezing wind, casting skeletal shadows over rows of stacked metal containers that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Alistair’s armored SUV blew past a rusted chain-link gate marked Vance International Shipping — Unauthorized Personnel Prohibited, tearing down a gravel pier until it screeched to a halt beside a massive, windowless freighter docked against the icy pier.
The ship was a behemoth—an ocean-going cargo vessel painted in flat, non-reflective black, its sides scarred by rust and salt water. There were no lights on the deck, no signs of life, yet the heavy steel loading ramp was lowered, humming with the sound of hidden hydraulic generators.
"Out of the car. Now," Alistair commanded, killing the engine and opening his door into the biting lake wind.
He rushed around to the back seat, helping Lena and the baby out, wrapping his own heavy cashmere overcoat around Lena’s shoulders to shield her from the freezing spray coming off the lake.
"Alistair, this is insane," Lena stammered, her teeth chattering as she clutched Nora tight. "A boat? Are we fleeing the country? What about my life, my job, my apartment?"
"Your apartment is a smoking crater by now, Lena," Alistair said harshly, his dark eyes softening by a fraction as he guided her toward the loading ramp. "And Calloway’s was never a restaurant. It was a front. A listening post. Just like you were supposed to be a waitress."
The words hit Lena like a physical blow. She stopped dead on the icy ramp.
"What did you say?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "What do you mean, I was supposed to be a waitress?"
Alistair paused, looking down at her with a heavy, unreadable expression. Before he could answer, the sharp pop-pop-pop of suppressed gunfire echoed across the pier. A spray of concrete chipped off the edge of the loading ramp just inches from Alistair’s boot.
"They're here!" Vincent Marsh shouted, leaning out of the lead SUV and firing a return burst from his assault rifle into the darkness behind them. "Alistair, get them on the ship! The North Side brought a clean-up crew!"
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"Move!" Alistair roared, grabbing Lena’s waist and practically carrying her up the steel ramp as the metal hull of the freighter echoed with the ping of incoming rounds.
They scrambled onto the dark, cavernous deck just as the hydraulic ramp began to lift, sealing them inside the belly of the beast as the massive diesel engines roared to life, pushing the black ship out into the freezing, open waters of Lake Michigan.
