« Agent spécial Miller », dit l’homme en s’agenouillant à côté d’elle et en sortant une radio de son gilet.
« Du calme, l’équipe ! »
Nous avons le témoin !
Appelez l’équipe médicale du quai ouest !
Il regarda Emma avec un profond soulagement.
« Où est Moretti ? »
Il a envoyé le signal du transpondeur d’urgence depuis ce secteur il y a quatre minutes.
Emma pointa un doigt tremblant et ensanglanté vers la trappe de service inondée et bouillonnante.
« Il est en bas… »
Le tunnel s’est effondré.
La rivière… la rivière est arrivée.
Miller jura entre ses dents en se jetant au bord du puits.
Il scruta les eaux tumultueuses et troubles, son visage se figeant en une masse de granit.
« Il les a attirés dans la brèche de la rivière », murmura Miller pour lui-même, comprenant instantanément le calcul.
« Il savait que le mur de soutènement finirait par céder. »
« Est-il mort ? »
Emma parvint à articuler difficilement, agrippant la manche de Miller avec une désespoir frénétique.
« Dites-moi qu’il n’est pas mort ! »
Avant que Miller puisse répondre, la surface de l’eau bouillante dans le puits se brisa dans un violent plouf.
Une main — balafrée, ensanglantée et dégoulinante d’huile noire — jaillit de l’eau et s’agrippa avec une force écrasante au rebord d’acier du sol.
Emma haleta, se précipitant en avant à genoux.
Vincent Moretti s’est hissé hors du gouffre inondé.
Sa chemise était déchirée au niveau des côtes, laissant apparaître de profondes lacérations causées par des éclats de briques.
Son visage était pâle à cause de la température glaciale de l’eau, et du sang coulait d’une blessure près de sa racine des cheveux, se mêlant à la boue de la rivière.
Dans sa main gauche, il tenait le disque dur tactique étanche qui dégoulinait.
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.
