Chapter 3 - Blood on the Docks
The man gagged, clawing frantically at my wrist as the gold chain bit into his windpipe. I held him suspended against the metal shelving for three agonizing seconds before releasing my grip, letting him collapse forward, coughing and gasping for air.
“Who sent you?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
The brute wiped a smear of blood from his lip, his eyes darting wildly between my stone-cold expression and the massive silhouette of Dante blocking the doorway. He realized very quickly that badge numbers and empty threats meant nothing inside this room.
“It... it was Richter,” the man wheezed, clutching his bruised throat. “Victor Richter.”
The name struck a bell in the dark machinery of my mind. Victor Richter was a high-level logistics coordinator for the Chicago Port Authority—and secretly, the primary conduit for a massive international contraband smuggling ring that funneled unttraceable weapons and counterfeit currency through the North American shipping lanes. For months, my organization had suspected someone within the port administration was bleeding into our legitimate real estate supply chains. We just hadn't found the bleeding edge yet.
“What was in the envelope?” I demanded.
“Shipping manifests,” the thug gasped, wincing in pain. “Digital flash drives and paper ledgers detailing every shell company Richter uses to launder drug money through municipal real estate developments. The dead woman—the mother—she was an administrative clerk in the port office. She stumbled across the transfer logs three days ago. She tried to blackmail Richter for enough cash to get her and the kid out of the city.”
“So Richter sent a wet-work team to clean house,” Dante muttered darkly from the doorway.
“Richter didn't want any loose ends,” the thug spat, wiping blood onto his jacket sleeve. “And when the kid slipped out the back window with the primary ledger drive, Richter went ballistic. He put a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty on finding that little girl before sunrise. If she turns those files over to federal investigators or—or to you—Richter’s entire operation goes up in flames.”
I stood up slowly, brushing a speck of dust off the lapel of my suit jacket. I looked down at the bruised, pathetic excuse for a soldier groveling at my feet.
“You ruined a little girl’s Christmas Eve,” I said quietly. “You terrorized a mother in her own home. And you thought you could hunt a child through my city.”
The man paled. “Look, man, we were just following orders—!”
“Orders are finished,” I interrupted. I turned to Dante. “Take these three down to the industrial dry dock at Pier 44. Tie cinder blocks to their ankles and throw them into Lake Michigan. Let the fish sort out their employment history.”
“Wait! No! You said if I talked—!” the thug screamed as Dante efficiently hauled him and his two partners to their feet like ragdolls.
“I said I’d let you talk,” I corrected without looking back. “I never said I’d let you walk.”
The heavy metal door of the closet slammed shut, cutting off their muffled cries.
I walked back down the quiet hospital corridor, my mind calculating the pieces with ruthless efficiency. Victor Richter thought he was untouchable because he operated under the protective umbrella of municipal corruption. He thought a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty on a seven-year-old girl was just business as usual.
He didn't realize that in Chicago, there were rules. And the most fundamental rule of all was that you never, ever cross lines into my territory—especially when there’s an innocent child involved.
I pushed open the door to room 412.
Norah was still sitting in the armchair, wrapped in my cashmere coat, her big dark eyes blinking sleepily against the harsh hospital lights. Beside her bed, Dr. Alan Vance—a tired-looking man in his late forties with graying temples—was shining a small penlight into the unconscious mother’s eyes.
“Mr. Vale,” the doctor whispered, looking up as I entered. “Her vitals are stabilizing. The intracranial pressure is dropping. But she’s going to need specialized neurological surgery within the next forty-eight hours to repair the skull fracture. The public hospital system won't approve the surgical team until administrative clearance clears—which could take days.”
“She’s not staying in the public system,” I said instantly. “Arrange an armored medical transport. Move her to my private surgical wing at Mercy General downtown. Bring the best neurosurgeon in the country. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
Dr. Vance blinked in surprise, then nodded slowly. “Understood, Mr. Vale. I’ll coordinate the transfer immediately.”
As the doctor stepped out to handle the logistics, I walked over to Norah’s chair. She looked up at me, her small fingers clutching the stuffed rabbit.
“Are the bad men gone?” she whispered.
I knelt down, resting my hands gently on the armrests of her chair, looking directly into her eyes so she could see the absolute, unwavering truth in mine.
“The bad men are never going to bother you again, Norah,” I promised her. “And your mother is going to get the best doctors in the world. But right now, you and I have somewhere to be.”
May you like
“Where?”
“We’re going to go pay a little Christmas visit to Uncle Marcus’s boss,” I said, a cold, predatory smile touching the corners of my mouth. “Mr. Victor Richter is going to learn what happens when you mess with my family.”
