Chapter 5 - The Warehouse on Clybourn
The rain had started again by dusk, slicking the dark industrial streets of Chicago’s North Side with sheets of gray water.
The abandoned shipping warehouse on Clybourn Avenue loomed like a concrete monolith against the stormy night sky. Several black SUVs were parked haphazardly in the gravel lot outside, their headlights cut, blending into the surrounding shadows.
Claire paid the driver two blocks away and walked the rest of the distance in the freezing drizzle, keeping close to the brick walls of the adjacent factories.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She crept around to the side of the warehouse, finding a rusted metal fire exit door left slightly ajar. Peering through the narrow crack, she saw a cavernous, dimly lit interior filled with stacked shipping crates, overhead gantry cranes, and a dozen men standing in a loose circle around a raised loading dock.
In the center of the platform stood Adrian Moretti.
He didn't look panicked. He stood with his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his dark overcoat, flanked by Vince and two other heavily armed guards.
Facing them, pacing back and forth with a smug, predatory grin, was Frankie Marcone.
Even from twenty yards away, across the echoing expanse of the warehouse floor, Claire recognized that swagger. Frankie hadn't changed; he was still the same cruel, narcissistic bully, just draped in a more expensive Brioni suit and surrounded by more guns.
"I have to hand it to you, Moretti," Frankie laughed, his voice bouncing off the corrugated metal walls. "You walk right into the lion's den without blinking. Must be nice to be the king of Chicago. Too bad the crown is about to slip."
"You stole three containers of tech, Frankie," Adrian said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room, completely devoid of fear. "And you left your calling card on my crates. I’m here to collect the merchandise and teach you a lesson in manners."
Frankie snorted, pulling a silver flask from his pocket and taking a sip. "Manners? Oh, Adrian, you're living in the past. The old rules are dead. The Moretti family is getting soft, sitting in your fancy Gold Coast mansions while new blood takes over the streets."
"New blood?" Adrian tilted his head slightly. "You couldn't run a lemonade stand without losing inventory, let alone a syndicate."
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Frankie’s face twisted into an ugly snarl. He snapped his fingers, and four armed enforcers stepped out from behind the stacks of crates, leveling automatic weapons directly at Adrian and his men.
"Drop your weapons," Frankie hissed, his eyes wide with manic triumph. "Drop them right now, or I turn your elite little security detail into Swiss cheese."
