Chapter 4 - The Peoria Trip
By noon, the security protocols around the Lake Forest estate had been doubled. June and her children—eight-year-old Lila and five-year-old Micah—had arrived safely from Peoria, escorted by two of my most trusted security operatives.
I stood in the expansive foyer of the mansion, watching as June tried to coax her youngest daughter away from the towering crystal chandelier. The little girl's eyes were wide with wonder, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit in one hand while staring at the marble floors.
"Mr. Blackwell," June said, walking over nervously, wiping her hands on her apron. "I don't know how to thank you. The medical supply company dropped off a new oxygen unit for my mother an hour ago, and... and my bank app is showing back-pay deposits that don't make any sense. There's fifty thousand dollars in my account."
"That's not back-pay, June," I said softly, crouching down so I was eye-level with little Micah, who peeked out from behind his mother's skirt. "That's restitution. Every dollar Marcus and his associates stole from you and your coworkers is being returned with compounding interest."
June's eyes filled with tears, but this time, they weren't tears of defeat. "You didn't have to do that. You're... you're a very different man than what people say in the city."
"In the city, people only know what I build," I replied, standing back up. "Inside these walls, I know what matters. Pack your bags for the weekend, June. You, your mother, and the girls are staying here in the private family wing until this is completely resolved."
"Resolved?" She froze. "Mr. Blackwell, what is happening?"
"Marcus Sterling tried to play a game with people he shouldn't have crossed," I said, my voice hardening. "I'm going to Peoria."
"Peoria?" she asked, stunned. "Why would you go there?"
"Because Marcus's financial trail doesn't just lead to the Cayman Islands," I explained, pulling on my heavy wool overcoat. "It leads to a decommissioned grain elevator on the outskirts of Peoria that your mother's apartment building overlooks. My security team flagged a heavy influx of cash withdrawals from that exact zip code over the last twelve months. Somebody is running a laundering operation right under your family's nose."
Two hours later, my private helicopter touched down on a muddy, snow-dusted airstrip outside Peoria, Illinois. Vincent and a four-man tactical detail disembarked first, securing the perimeter before motioning for me to step out into the freezing Midwestern wind.
The abandoned grain elevator loomed against the gray winter sky like a concrete monolith. According to our satellite thermal imaging, there were at least half a dozen heat signatures moving inside the lower level—men who weren't local dockworkers or corporate accountants.
May you like
"Boss," Vincent said, handing me a tactical earpiece. "Local police are compromised. The precinct captain has received regular wire transfers from Apex Management Solutions for the last three years. If we call local backup, they'll tip off the handlers before we reach the perimeter."
"Then we don't call local backup," I said, sliding the earpiece into place and checking the slide of my Sig Sauer P229. "We handle this ourselves."
