Chapter 5 - The Ambush at Navy Pier
The private dining salon overlooking the freezing gray expanse of Lake Michigan was filled with thick cigar smoke and the low, tense rumble of desperate men.
Twelve union delegates and maritime freight bosses sat around a massive oval table. On one side sat Adrien, with Marco standing like an immovable wall of muscle behind his right shoulder. I sat slightly behind Adrien’s left, holding an iPad filled with balance sheets and shipping schedules, trying to look like an experienced executive assistant while my palms sweat profusely.
Across from us sat the union president, a barrel-chested, red-faced man named Frank Gallagher, who had spent the last forty minutes ranting about security hazards on the docks.
“We can’t guarantee the safety of our crane operators, Voss!” Gallagher shouted, slamming a meaty fist onto the table. “Julian Moretti sent armed crews to Terminal 4. He says if we load your ships bound for Rotterdam, he’ll burn our union hall to the ground! We have families!”
Adrien sat motionless, listening with terrifying patience. He hadn't touched the glass of water in front of him.
“Frank,” Adrien said softly, his voice cutting through the noise like an icepick. “Moretti has two hundred foot soldiers and a mountain of gambling debt. I have eighty percent of the maritime infrastructure between here and Detroit. If your men strike, I will replace every single crane operator with automated systems from my German subsidiaries within forty-eight hours. Your union will cease to exist. Your pension funds will dissolve.”
Gallagher blanched. “You wouldn't dare.”
“Try me,” Adrien whispered. “Or, you accept the twenty percent wage increase I’ve authorized, place my private security details on every crane tower, and go home to your wife in Naperville with a clean conscience. The choice is yours. You have until the count of three.”
The room went completely breathless.
I watched Gallagher closely. His eyes darted nervously, not toward Adrien, but toward the service entrance behind the bar.
Then I noticed something else.
The young catering waiter who had just entered the room carrying a silver tray of fresh coffee wasn't looking at the cups. His hands were tucked awkwardly near his apron waistband, his knuckles white, his eyes locked onto the back of Adrien’s head. His breathing was rapid, shallow—the exact same adrenaline-fueled tremor I had seen in panicked shoplifters during my years in the restaurant industry.
He wasn't a waiter.
My instincts screamed before my conscious mind could fully process the danger.
“Adrien, down!” I shouted, lunging forward without thinking.
I slammed my body against Adrien’s shoulder, throwing my entire weight into him just as the young man pulled a suppressed semi-automatic pistol from beneath his server’s towel.
*Pfft! Pfft!*
Two rounds punched through the high-backed leather chair where Adrien’s chest had been half a second earlier, sending shredded stuffing and leather exploding into the air.
Chaos erupted.
Union bosses screamed, diving under the table like rats. Marco moved with unbelievable speed, his weapon clearing his holster in a blur. A deafening roar echoed through the private room as Marco fired twice, dropping the shooter instantly near the bar.
Adrien rolled across the hardwood floor, pulling me underneath him, his massive body shielding me completely from any further gunfire. His hand cradled the back of my head, pressing my face into the safety of his chest. I could smell the familiar scent of cedarwood, mixed now with the acrid, metallic stench of gunpowder.
“Clear!” Marco bellowed, sweeping the room with his weapon drawn. “Service door is secure! No secondary shooters!”
Adrien didn't move for three long seconds. I could feel the thunderous, powerful beat of his heart against my cheek.
He slowly pushed himself up, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that burned. His hair was slightly disheveled, but his expression was cold, murderous fury—not directed at me, but at the room.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his hands checking my shoulders, my arms, with surprising gentleness. “Sophie, look at me. Are you bleeding?”
“I… I don't think so,” I gasped, trembling uncontrollably as the shock hit me like a wall. “He… he was breathing too fast. His hands were wrong.”
Adrien stared at me, a profound, stunned look flashing across his dark eyes before his mask of absolute control slammed back down. He helped me to my feet, keeping one protective arm locked around my waist to steady my shaking legs.
He turned toward Gallagher, who was crawling out from beneath the mahogany table, white as a sheet.
Adrien walked over to the trembling union boss, grabbed him by his silk lapels with one hand, and hoisted the two-hundred-pound man clean off his feet against the wall.
“Julian Moretti paid you half a million dollars to set this room up, didn't he, Frank?” Adrien whispered, his face inches from the man's.
“I had no choice! He threatened my daughter!” Gallagher wept, wetting himself in terror. “Please, Voss! Don't kill me!”
Adrien dropped him like a sack of trash.
“Marco,” Adrien said quietly. “Take Mr. Gallagher to the basement at the warehouse. Find out where Moretti is hiding his distribution hub. And call my private physician to Heritage Tower. Now.”
Adrien turned back to me, his cold eyes softening as he reached out and took my trembling hand in his.
May you like
“Come,” he said gently. “You’re done for the day.”
***
