The sound of Dominic Vale’s cane striking the marble floor carried through the great room like a gunshot.

Arthur Voss stared at the micro-transmitter lying on the concrete floor, the flickering halogen light casting long shadows across his pale, sweat-slicked face.

"You don't get it, Dominic," Arthur sneered, coughing up a spot of blood. "It's not just a syndicate takeover. It's the federal task force. The prosecutor's office has been building a racketeering indictment against you for eighteen months."

Dominic’s expression didn't change. "The task force doesn't use military-grade tracking bugs on private orthopedic braces."

"They do when they hire private contractors," Arthur spat. "The man who gave me that bug wasn't a mobster. He was Marcus Kane."

Vincent, standing in the doorway, let out a sharp breath. "Marcus Kane? The former CIA director running Apex Global Security?"

"Kane wants the Vale shipping logistics network for his own private transport," Arthur revealed, his voice breaking into a raspy whisper. "He promised me immunity and fifty million dollars in offshore accounts if I delivered your signature on the corporate transfer papers. He has forty armed contractors moving on Dock 42 right now. They aren't going to burn it, Dominic. They're going to plant two hundred kilos of unregistered weapons in your warehouses and call the FBI."

Dominic’s jaw tightened. Framing him for international arms trafficking would instantly freeze all his assets, strip his legal defenses, and land him in a federal supermax prison for the rest of his life.

"When is Kane arriving?" Dominic demanded.

"Midnight," Arthur whispered. "He's flying into the private helipad at the harbor on a black Sikorsky."

Dominic checked his watch. It was 11:15 PM.

Out on the rain-slicked highway, Clare pushed the white Volvo through the storm, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. The windshield wipers beat a frantic rhythm against the glass as the dark industrial silhouettes of the South Chicago docks rose up in the distance.

Beside her on the passenger seat, the encrypted satellite radio suddenly crackled to life.

"Clare, do you copy?" Dominic’s deep voice cut through the static.

Clare reached for the button. "I hear you, Mr. Vale! I'm two miles from the south gate."

"Listen to me carefully, Clare," Dominic said calmly over the radio. "The plan has changed. Arthur's associates aren't trying to destroy the warehouse. They are trying to plant contraband in Bay 7 before the federal authorities arrive."

Clare swerved around a stalled semi-truck. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do not enter the main gate," Dominic instructed. "Drive directly to the harbor master's office at the north pier. Find a man named Elijah Drake. Tell him the word 'Blackwood.' He will know what to do."

"Elijah Drake... Blackwood. Got it," Clare repeated, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Suddenly, a massive black SUV accelerated out of a side street behind her, its high beams flashing blindly into her rearview mirror.

"Mr. Vale!" Clare gasped. "Someone's following me!"

"Keep driving, Clare! Do not stop!"

The black SUV surged forward, slamming into the rear bumper of her sedan. The shock sent the Volvo skidding across the wet asphalt, smoke pouring from the tires as Clare fought to keep the vehicle from spinning into the concrete guardrail.

In the study back at the estate, Dominic heard the metallic screech of grinding metal through the radio.

"Vincent!" Dominic shouted, striding toward the door. "Get the armored Yukon. We're going to the docks."

"Boss, your knee—"

"My knee is fine!" Dominic roared, pulling a black leather holster over his shoulders and sliding a heavy custom Kimber .45 into the leather. "We move now!"

On the highway, the black SUV rammed Clare’s sedan a second time, forcing her off the main road onto the dirt shoulder near the harbor entrance. The Volvo slammed to a halt against a wooden utility pole, the radiator hissing steam into the cold rain.

Clare sat dazed in the driver's seat, blood trickling from a small cut on her forehead. Through the cracked windshield, she saw the black SUV pull up thirty feet away.

Two heavy-set men in black tactical gear stepped out, drawing weapons as they advanced on her disabled car.

Clare looked at the passenger seat. The satellite radio was dead, smashed by the impact.

She looked down at her lap. Her fingers brushed against the heavy brass key Dominic had given her—and beside it, lying in the open tray, was Ellie's wooden latch toy.

Clare’s eyes narrowed with sudden, desperate clarity. She grabbed the toy, unhooked the silver metal clasp, and slipped her hand beneath the dashboard where her brother had taught her how to hotwire old fleet vehicles years ago.

She jammed the sharp steel clasp directly into the ignition bypass relay.