“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.
“Initiate the sub-level transit line.
Cut all power to the main elevator banks in two minutes.
Trap their breach team in the lobby.”
“Understood.
What about the jet at O’Hare?”
Vincent guided Emma toward the private service elevator concealed behind the marble wall of the dining room.
“I will handle the runway myself.
Get the decoy convoy rolling out of the north garage.
Give them something to chase.”
As the hidden elevator doors slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss, Vincent took Emma’s hand in his.
Her fingers were freezing, but as she looked at him, she saw no doubt in his posture—only a lethal, calculated focus.
Chapter 43 – Out of the Shadows
The private service elevator bypassed all ninety floors of the Moretti Tower, descending straight past the commercial levels, the private garages, and into the sub-basement five stories beneath the Chicago street grid.
Above them, the muted thuds of flashbangs and tactical boots rattled faintly through the concrete slabs.
The federal assault team had breached the grand lobby, only to find the power cut and the primary elevators dead.
At the same time, three armored black SUVs roared out of the tower’s northern exit into the morning drizzle, immediately drawing half a dozen law enforcement cruisers into a high-speed pursuit toward Lake Shore Drive.
None of those vehicles contained Vincent Moretti.
When the elevator doors slid open in the damp, cool air of the subterranean tunnel, two of Vincent’s elite private security operators were waiting, dressed in unbranded tactical gear, holding heavy bags.
“Mr.
Moretti,” one of them nodded, offering a low-profile Kevlar vest to Emma and an assault pack to Vincent.
“The freight railway beneath the river is clear.
We have the modified rail-runner prepped.”
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 », murmura-t-elle, sa voix couvrant à peine le bourdonnement du moteur électrique.
« Le sénateur a dit que le passé de ma grand-mère avait un lien avec votre famille. »
Il a dit qu’Arthur et Helena n’étaient que des pions.
Que voulait-il dire ?
Vincent marqua une pause, les doigts posés sur l’arme.
Il soutint son regard, une ombre passant sur ses traits fins.
« Marcus Vance n’a pas bâti son empire politique sur des dons légitimes », a déclaré Vincent d’un ton sombre.
« Il y a trente ans, alors que mon père développait les lignes maritimes Moretti dans le Midwest, Vance était un jeune procureur d’État ambitieux. »
Il a eu recours à l’intimidation, au chantage et aux saisies illégales pour éliminer ses concurrents.
Votre grand-père était auditeur principal de la ville à l’époque, Emma.
Il a refusé de signer les contrats illicites de Vance.
Emma eut un hoquet de surprise.
« Mon grand-père… est décédé dans un accident du travail alors que ma mère était enfant. »
« Ce n’était pas un accident », répondit Vincent en serrant la mâchoire.
