“You made a mess, boy,” Vance drawled smoothly.
“Helena was an old friend, but she grew sloppy in her old age.
Arthur was pathetic.
But I am neither old nor sloppy.
By noon today, your name will be stripped from every building in this country.
You will be an enemy of the state.”
“You’re overplaying your hand, Marcus,” Vincent said coldly.
“I know about the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.
I know about the De Rossi weapons pipeline through the Great Lakes.”
“You have no proof, Vincent.
Because while you were busy playing hero for that common little waitress, my men paid a visit to her grandmother’s nursing home in Evanston.”
Emma’s heart stopped.
She gasped, grabbing Vincent’s arm, her face draining of all color.
“Grandma…!”
Vance laughed softly, a terrifying sound that chilled the air on the terrace.
“Your sweet grandmother is currently sitting in a private jet on the runway at O’Hare, Emma dear.
If you and Vincent want to see her draw another breath, you will walk out of that tower unarmed, with your hands above your heads, in exactly thirty minutes.
If you are one second late… the jet takes off for a destination where international law does not exist.”
The call clicked dead.
Chapter 42 – The Thirty-Minute Clock
The sound of Emma’s stifled sobs cut through the cold air of the penthouse terrace, sharper than any blade.
She gripped Vincent’s lapels, her knuckles white, her body trembling with a terror she had never known before.
“Vincent, he has her,” she whispered, her voice fracturing.
“He took her from the nursing home… she’s frail, she can’t survive this.
We have to go down.
We have to give them whatever they want!”
Vincent looked down at her, his expression carved from dark granite.
His silver-gray eyes, usually impenetrable, flared with a murderous intensity that would have made any grown man flinch.
He did not pull away; instead, he brought his hands up to cup her face, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears.
“Listen to me, Emma,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deadly, steady register that brooked no argument.
“Look at me.”
Emma blinked through her tears, locking eyes with him.
“Marcus Vance does not let hostages walk away,” Vincent said calmly.
“If we walk down those stairs unarmed with our hands up, you and I die in the lobby under the guise of resisting arrest, and your grandmother never leaves that tarmac alive.
That is how men like Vance operate.
He does not negotiate from mercy.
He only respects leverage.”
“Then what do we do?”
Emma choked out.
“We have less than twenty-eight minutes!”
Vincent reached inside his tailored coat, pulled out a small titanium keycard, and turned toward the terrace elevator.
He tapped his earpiece, bringing up an encrypted channel that bypassed every public communications network in Illinois.
“Matteo,” Vincent spoke into the comms.
“Code Zero.
Vance has breached Evanston and taken a hostage to Hangar 7 at O’Hare.
The feds are at the perimeter of the tower.”
Matteo’s voice came back instantly, stripped of all warmth.
“The Chicago field office has three tactical units mobilizing in the lobby right now, boss.
They have an emergency warrant signed by a federal magistrate aligned with Vance’s PAC.
We can’t use the helipad.
Federal snipers have eyes on the roof from the adjacent high-rise.”
“We were never going to use the helipad,” Vincent replied coldly.
„Die Unterflur-Transitlinie in Betrieb nehmen.“
Schalten Sie innerhalb von zwei Minuten die gesamte Stromzufuhr zu den Hauptaufzugsanlagen ab.
„Sperren Sie ihr Einbruchsteam in der Lobby ein.“
“Verstanden.
Und wie sieht es mit dem Jet am Flughafen O’Hare aus?
Vincent geleitete Emma zu dem privaten Lastenaufzug, der hinter der Marmorwand des Speisesaals verborgen war.
„Ich werde die Start- und Landebahn selbst betreuen.“
Den Ablenkungskonvoi aus der Nordgarage in Bewegung setzen.
„Gebt ihnen etwas, dem sie nachjagen können.“
Als sich die verborgenen Aufzugtüren mit einem leisen hydraulischen Zischen öffneten, nahm Vincent Emmas Hand in seine.
Ihre Finger waren eiskalt, aber als sie ihn ansah, erkannte sie in seiner Haltung keinen Zweifel – nur eine tödliche, berechnende Konzentration.
Kapitel 43 – Aus den Schatten
Der private Lastenaufzug umging alle neunzig Stockwerke des Moretti Towers und fuhr direkt an den Geschäftsetagen und den privaten Garagen vorbei in das fünf Stockwerke unter dem Straßennetz von Chicago liegende Untergeschoss.
Über ihnen hallten die gedämpften Schläge von Blendgranaten und das leise Klappern von taktischen Stiefeln durch die Betonplatten.
Das Einsatzteam der Bundesbehörden hatte die große Eingangshalle gestürmt, nur um festzustellen, dass der Strom ausgefallen und die Hauptaufzüge außer Betrieb waren.
Gleichzeitig rasten drei gepanzerte schwarze Geländewagen aus dem nördlichen Ausgang des Turms in den morgendlichen Nieselregen und lösten sofort eine Verfolgungsjagd mit hoher Geschwindigkeit durch ein halbes Dutzend Polizeiwagen in Richtung Lake Shore Drive aus.
