Chapter 4 - Race to the Docks
The Chicago night air whipped past the windows of Marcus’s armored SUV as we tore down the highway toward the municipal docks. The digital speedometer climbed past ninety miles per hour, but inside the cabin, the only sound was the rhythmic tapping of Marcus’s fingers on his tactical console as he tracked Serena’s vehicle on satellite feed.
“She’s heading straight for Hangar 4,” Marcus reported, his eyes glued to the glowing screen. “There’s a twin-engine Gulfstream idling on the tarmac, registered to a shell company tied to Julian Blackwood’s old offshore accounts. She’s trying to fly out to South America.”
I sat in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle, my mind racing. Clara—Serena—had always been three steps ahead. From St. Jude’s to the Blackwood mansion, she had meticulously built her identities like layers of armor. But armor has seams. And panic makes mistakes.
“She won't make it,” I said aloud, more to convince myself than anyone else.
“She won't,” Victor agreed, his hands locked tightly around the steering wheel, his knuckles stark white. He glanced sideways at me, the dashboard lights casting sharp shadows across his chiseled jaw. “Claire, when we get there, stay behind the tactical team. I won't let her touch you again.”
“I’m not hiding anymore, Victor,” I replied firmly. “She used my past to keep me silent. Seeing her face down, seeing her lose control—that’s the only way this ends.”
The SUV screeched to a halt behind a row of rusting shipping containers near the edge of the dark, windswept docks. Ahead of us, floodlights illuminated Hangar 4. A sleek, white private jet sat on the tarmac with its turbines whining at a high-pitched idle, exhaust shimmering in the cold air against the dark waters of Lake Michigan.
Marcus killed the engine and dowsed the headlights.
Three tactical vehicles materialized from the shadows behind us, doors swinging open as six armed men in tactical gear stepped out silently, taking positions around the perimeter of the hangar.
Victor stepped out of our vehicle, drawing his weapon. I followed right behind him, pulling my jacket tighter against the freezing wind.
As we approached the open sliding doors of the hangar, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the landing ramp of the jet.
Serena.
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She wasn't wearing her white silk and diamonds anymore. She wore a dark trench coat, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, clutching a leather briefcase to her chest. But the moment she saw Victor step into the floodlights with his gun drawn, the flawless, aristocratic mask cracked completely.
A manic, desperate laugh escaped her lips.
