Emma’s eyes widened as she saw an electric maintenance trolley sitting on the historic freight tunnels that ran beneath downtown Chicago—a remnant of the old underground coal logistics network, completely invisible to traffic cameras and satellite surveillance.
“Put this on,” Vincent said softly, slipping the lightweight ballistic vest over Emma’s shoulders and adjusting the straps with practiced precision.
“Keep your head down until we clear the city center.”
“How far does this track go?”
Emma asked, her heart pounding against her ribs as she fastened the buckle.
“Far enough to bypass Vance’s federal roadblocks,” Vincent replied.
“We emerge in a disused warehouse on the Des Plaines corridor, seven miles from O’Hare.”
He glanced at his watch.
Nineteen minutes remaining.
They climbed onto the rail trolley.
The operator engaged the silent electric drive, and the trolley surged forward, rushing through the dark, damp brick arches beneath the city.
Water dripped from overhead pipes, and the cool subterranean draft whipped Emma’s hair around her face.
She looked at Vincent, who stood balanced against the vibration of the tracks, checking the slide on a customized handgun with cold, mechanical efficiency.
“Vincent,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the electric motor.
“The Senator said my grandmother’s past had something to do with your family.
He said Arthur and Helena were just pawns.
What did he mean?”
Vincent paused, his fingers resting on the weapon.
He met her gaze, a shadow passing over his sharp features.
“Marcus Vance didn’t build his political empire on legitimate donations,” Vincent said grimly.
“Thirty years ago, when my father was expanding the Moretti shipping lines through the Midwest, Vance was an ambitious young state attorney.
He used leverage, blackmail, and illegal seizures to destroy competitors.
Your grandfather was a senior auditor for the city back then, Emma.
He refused to sign off on Vance’s illicit contracts.”
Emma gasped.
“My grandfather… died in an industrial accident when my mother was a child.”
“It was no accident,” Vincent answered, his jaw tightening.
“Vance made it look like one.
And my father tried to protect your grandmother after his death, but she fled the city with your mother to keep the family safe.
Vance has been hunting for the auditor’s missing files for three decades.
He believes your grandmother kept them.”
Emma’s breath hitched in her throat.
Her humble, quiet grandmother, who lived in a small room in Evanston knitting blankets, had been guarding the one secret capable of destroying a United States Senator.
Chapter 44 – O’Hare Lockdown
Above ground, rain began to lash against the tarmac of O’Hare International Airport.
At the western edge of the airfield, far from the commercial terminals, sat Hangar 7.
Parked outside on the wet tarmac was a sleek Gulfstream private jet, its twin engines already whining softly as the flight crew conducted pre-flight pressurization tests.
Inside the hangar, half a dozen private security contractors wearing black raincoats and earpieces patrolled the perimeter.
In the cabin of the jet, sitting in a plush leather seat, was an elderly woman with silver hair, wrapped in a faded cardigan.
She held a worn rosary in her trembling hands, her eyes clouded with anxiety, yet her back remained remarkably straight.
Standing over her was a tall man in a dark trench coat, speaking into a secure satellite phone.
“Senator, the decoy vehicles from Moretti Tower are being boxed in near Lincoln Park,” the operative reported.
“Moretti wasn’t in them.
The tower itself is completely locked down by our federal team, but they haven’t located the target.”
On the other end of the line, Marcus Vance’s voice was venomous.
“He didn’t take the lobby, and he didn’t use the roof.
That means he used the underground line.
Check your perimeter now.
If that clock hits zero, wheels up.
I don’t care if Moretti is in the air or on the ground.
Once the plane is in Mexican airspace, dispose of the old woman.”
“Understood, sir.”
Suddenly, the control tower’s emergency frequencies crackled across the airport’s ground communications.
“All ground units, this is FAA Regional Dispatch.
Emergency stop order issued for Taxiway Bravo and Hangar 7.
All outbound private charters are halted under federal maritime jurisdiction.”
The contractor frowned, pressing his earpiece.
“What the hell?
Check the tower!
Vance owns the FAA regional director!”
“Sir!” another guard shouted from the edge of the hangar, pointing out into the rain.
“Look at the perimeter gate!”
Two miles away, the security gates of the airport’s perimeter service road had just been smashed inward.
A matte-black armored truck, customized with reinforced steel bull bars and heavy off-road suspension, tore through the chain-link fence, throwing sparks into the gray sky as it charged across the empty outer taxiways directly toward Hangar 7.
