Emma gasped, scrambling forward on her knees.
Vincent Moretti hauled himself out of the flooded abyss.
His shirt was shredded across his ribs, displaying deep lacerations from flying brick shrapnel.
His face was pale from the freezing temperature of the water, and blood trickled from a wound near his hairline, mixing with the river mud.
In his left hand, he held the dripping, water-resistant tactical hard drive.
He threw the drive onto the concrete floor before Miller’s boots, then rolled onto his back, his chest rising and falling in violent, ragged gasps of fresh air.
Emma didn’t hesitate.
She threw her arms around him, burying her face into his soaked, freezing shoulder, heedless of the oil, the blood, or the federal agents surrounding them.
She was shaking so violently that her teeth clicked together, her tears soaking into his collar.
“You’re alive… you’re alive…”
Vincent’s breath was shallow, his body shuddering against the shock of hypothermia, but his right hand slowly lifted from the floor, resting firmly on the back of Emma’s head, holding her close against his chest.
“I told you,” he rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper, yet completely steady.
“Amateurs.”
Miller picked up the hard drive, inspecting the sealed encasing with awe.
“Matteo?”
Chapter 58 – The Gathering of Wolves
Forty-five minutes later, the Federal Reserve Bank building on LaSalle Street had been converted into a fortified staging ground.
The entire financial district was locked down under an emergency curfew issued by the Department of Justice.
State troopers blocked every intersection, their flashing blue and red emergency lights painting the towering skyscrapers in an eerie, pulsing glow.
Emma sat in an executive office on the fourth floor, wrapped in a heavy thermal blanket, a paper cup of hot black coffee warming her hands.
A female paramedic had already cleaned and bandaged the cuts on her palms and forehead.
Across the room, Vincent stood by the panoramic window, having refused to be transported to a hospital.
A physician had stitched the wound along his ribs under local anesthesia, but Vincent had already pulled on a clean, crisp white dress shirt provided by his staff, leaving the collar unbuttoned.
His eyes were fixed on the city below—a city teetering on the edge of a massive political earthquake.
Agent Miller entered the room, carrying a stack of red-labeled folders.
He tossed them onto the central conference table with a heavy thud.
“Vance didn’t stay at the civic hall,” Miller said, rubbing his tired eyes.
“The moment the explosion went off, he slipped out through the subterranean train tunnel before Moretti’s breach flooded the south sector.
Our field teams lost him near the railyards.”
Emma set her coffee down, her pulse quickening.
“He got away?”
“Not quite,” Vincent said without turning from the window.
“A man like Marcus Vance doesn’t run into hiding.
He has spent thirty years convinced that he owns every judge, every prosecutor, and every precinct commander in this state.
He doesn’t believe he can be defeated.
He will run to the only place where he thinks he still holds absolute power.”
“The Sterling Estate,” Emma realized, her eyes widening.
“Precisely,” Vincent said, turning around.
His gaze was cold, calculated, and terrifyingly focused.
“Victoria Sterling’s father is the chairman of the state judicial oversight committee.
That estate in Lake Forest is a sovereign compound.
It has private communication arrays that bypass federal surveillance, a helicopter landing pad, and armed private security that will legally hold federal marshals at bay until Vance can secure a stay of execution from an appellate judge.”
Miller crossed his arms, frowning deeply.
“He’s right.
We just received word that Judge Harrison—a longtime Sterling family crony—is currently drafting an emergency federal injunction to suppress the digital files from Moretti’s drive on the grounds of ‘chain of custody violations.’
If Vance reaches that house and transmits the injunction to the United States Court of Appeals before dawn, our raid is dead in the water.
We won’t have the legal authority to breach the gates without risking a constitutional crisis.”
“Then don’t breach it,” Vincent said calmly.
Miller stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“The law has procedures, Agent Miller,” Vincent walked over to the table, his presence commanding the entire room.
“I do not.
You have your warrant for Vance’s arrest, but your hands are tied by a corrupt bench.
Mine are not.”
“Moretti, you are a civilian in this investigation,” Miller warned, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a stern reprimand.
“If you go to Lake Forest and take the law into your own hands, I will have to arrest you alongside them.”
Vincent leaned forward, placing his scarred hands flat on the mahogany table.
His gray eyes pinned the federal agent with lethal intensity.
