Behind them, automatic fire hammered the mahogany tables into kindling.
A waiter who had been hiding behind an ice sculpture scrambled in panic, tripping Emma’s stride.
Vincent caught her around the waist, lifting her over the sprawling bodies and kicking open the heavy stainless-steel double doors leading into the industrial kitchen.
Inside, the industrial burners were still lit, boiling pots of soup hissing violently as vibrations continued to ripple through the floorboards.
The kitchen staff had vanished, having fled through the loading docks before Vance’s men sealed the gates.
“The freezer,” Vincent pointed toward an enormous walk-in cooler lined with riveted steel.
“Behind the storage racks.”
Emma pushed past the hanging sides of beef, the air turning bone-chilling cold in an instant.
Her breath plumed in white clouds as Vincent threw his weight against a heavy shelving unit laden with canned goods.
The iron unit groaned, scraping across the frosted tile floor to reveal a small, rusted maintenance hatch set directly into the concrete foundation wall.
“A breaker panel?”
Emma asked, her teeth beginning to chatter.
“An access port for the pneumatic banking tubes, converted during the bootleg era,” Vincent corrected.
He pulled a heavy ring of iron keys from beneath his shirt—keys he had carried since the day his father died.
He inserted a long, brass skeleton key into the oxidized lock.
“Once we are down there, the radio signals will die.
We lose all contact with the external grid.”
“Good,” Emma said, glancing back at the stainless steel doors, which were already rattling under the heavy impact of tactical boots.
“Because right now, the grid belongs to them.”
Chapter 54 – The Subterranean Labyrinth
They dropped six feet into the pitch-black darkness of the tunnel, their boots splashing into shallow, stagnant water that covered the forgotten rail tracks.
Vincent pulled the heavy iron hatch shut above them, sliding the internal deadlock into place just as the first spray of shotgun pellets blasted through the outer freezer wall above.
A heavy silence swallowed them, thick and oppressive, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of water from condensation-slicked brickwork.
Vincent flicked on a miniature tactical torch attached to his watch band.
The narrow beam of amber light cut through the gloom, revealing a narrow, arched tunnel of red brick, disappearing into an infinite stretch of darkness in both directions.
Iron narrow-gauge rails, rusted into deep orange flaking metal, ran down the center of the walkway.
Emma leaned against the damp brick wall, her chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly ebbed, leaving behind raw exhaustion and cold terror.
“Matteo was your brother in all but blood, Vincent.
He sat at your table.
He managed your mother’s trust.”
Vincent’s features remained carved from basalt.
The amber light cast deep, skull-like shadows across his cheekbones.
“Matteo always believed that power was a zero-sum equation.
He thought loyalty was a currency to be cashed in when the return was high enough.
J’aurais dû déceler sa soif de connaissances il y a six mois, lorsqu’il a commencé à remettre en question nos dépenses en infrastructures publiques.
« Il a dit que Vance lui avait offert l’empire », murmura Emma en frissonnant dans son uniforme de serveuse déchiré, le fin coton ne lui offrant aucune protection contre le froid souterrain.
Vincent ôta son pardessus anthracite sur mesure et le posa sur ses épaules sans dire un mot.
La laine était lourde et conservait la chaleur de son corps.
« Personne n’offre ce qu’il ne possède pas déjà. »
Vance est un chien acculé.
Il a fait sauter les fondations de la salle civique parce qu’il sait que le grand jury fédéral a déjà descellé les actes d’accusation scellés à Washington.
Dès que ces registres ont été vérifiés, sa carrière politique était terminée.
Ce qu’il voulait ce soir, c’était incendier le temple avec tous ceux qui s’y trouvaient — moi y compris — pour que l’histoire retienne cela comme un acte terroriste orchestré par Moretti Industries.
Emma serra son manteau contre elle, le léger parfum de bois de cèdre et de tabac précieux apaisant ses nerfs.
« Et si nous mourons ici ? »
« Ici, on ne meurt pas », a simplement déclaré Vincent.
Il vérifia sa boussole de poignet.
« Ces voies ferrées passent sous Adams Street, longent le centre postal et se terminent sous l’ancien entrepôt frigorifique situé sur la branche sud de la rivière Chicago. »
Il y a quatre miles à pied.
Mais nous devons agir vite.
La démolition effectuée par Vance n’a pas seulement fissuré les planches du plancher ; elle a également perturbé les murs de soutènement du lit de la rivière.
Comme par magie, un gémissement lointain et souterrain résonna dans le tunnel.
