Chapter 19 - The Diverted Strike
The realization struck me with the force of an oncoming freight train. The assault on the Toby Willis Center was never intended to breach our defenses; it was designed to pin me, Sal, and our entire security network down on the South Side while Matteo Rossi executed his real vengeance.
"Sal!" I shouted, sprinting back into the smoke-filled lobby, wiping blood and plaster dust from my eyes. "Check the remote telemetry for Terminal Four! Now!"
Sal dropped behind the security terminal, his hands shaking slightly as he tapped into the commercial harbor feeds on Lake Michigan. The monitors flickered, then displayed an ominous sight: the primary automated freight crane at Terminal Four was fully engaged, swinging a forty-ton shipping container over the central fuel storage tanks of the Port of Chicago.
"Jesus, Dominic," Sal whispered, his face turning completely pale. "Terminal Four handles the pressurized liquid natural gas pipeline for the entire northern corridor. If that crane drops forty tons from sixty feet onto the regulator manifold, the explosion will level four square blocks of the waterfront. Half the city's commercial harbor will burn to the waterline."
"And who holds the master operating license for Terminal Four?" I asked through gritted teeth, feeling the icy grip of Matteo’s trap tightening around our throats.
"You do," Sal muttered. "The Carter Logistics Trust. It would be branded the worst industrial catastrophe in the history of the Great Lakes. The federal government would seize every penny you own, and every survivor would curse your name for generations."
The heavy steel door of the sub-basement clicked, and Faith emerged into the smoke, followed closely by Vance. She didn't flinch at the sight of the blood on my hands or the shattered lobby around us. She marched straight over to the terminal, her sharp eyes scanning the live camera feed.
"Look at the crane's operator cab," Faith said, pointing a steady finger at the corner monitor. "There’s a figure inside. He’s wearing an orange high-visibility vest, but look at his posture. He’s not using the manual joysticks. He has a remote laptop hardwired into the hydraulic bypass."
"Matteo," I murmured. "He didn't trust an underling to finish this. He came to watch the empire burn with his own eyes."
"The drive to the terminal takes twenty-five minutes through downtown traffic," Sal said, checking his watch with mounting dread. "The hydraulic sequence shows the container release is set on an automated ten-minute timer. By the time we cross the river, the port will be a crater."
"We don't take the streets," Faith said, spinning around to face me. "Dominic, remember the old industrial rail spur beneath the Iron Street freight depot? The one that runs directly beneath the lakefront corridor?"
I stared at her, the pieces falling into place in an instant. "The underground freight pneumatic line. It was decommissioned fifteen years ago, but the maintenance tracks are still intact."
"We kept the maintenance inspection cart down there when we renovated the tracks for the vocational training program," Faith continued, her voice electric with urgency. "It’s battery-electric, runs on standard steel rails, and avoids every red light, bridge lift, and traffic jam between 47th Street and the harbor. We can be at Terminal Four in seven minutes."
"It’s pitch-black down there, Faith, and the tunnel hasn't been structurally inspected in five years," I warned, gripping her shoulders.
"Then we’ll run fast enough that the ceiling doesn't catch us," she answered fiercely, grabbing a heavy utility flashlight from the wall bracket. "You got your legs back, Dominic. Now let’s see you run."
May you like
Old Sal racked another shell into his shotgun, a grim, determined grin breaking across his scarred jaw. "I’ll prep the tunnel hatch behind the laundry room. Let’s go put this ghost in the dirt."
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