I Was Chicago’s Most Feared Underworld King Until An Ambush Paralyzed Me—Then A Broke Caretaker Touched My Legs, Defied My Wrath, And Uncovered The Deadly Traitor Inside My Gates!

The air in the subterranean tunnel smelled of ancient rust, standing stagnant water, and sulfur. The electric maintenance trolley—little more than a flat steel platform with four grooved wheels, a heavy lithium battery pack, and an exposed pipe-frame roll bar—screeched violently as Sal jammed the rheostat throttle all the way forward.

Sparks cascaded off the overhead cables, illuminating the damp, weeping concrete walls in rhythmic flashes of violet and white. Wind whipped violently through Faith’s hair as she crouched low beside me, holding the high-beam tactical flashlight fixed on the tracks ahead.

"Two hundred yards to the Terminal Four maintenance shaft!" Sal roared over the screeching steel wheels. "There’s a vertical egress ladder that brings us up inside the central gantry crane’s maintenance bay!"

"Matteo will have shooters stationed at the base of the gantry," I shouted back, checking the mechanical action of the sidearm Sal had recovered from the lobby contractors. "He expects an assault from the perimeter gates, not from beneath his boots."

"The timer on that container drop has less than four minutes left!" Faith shouted, tracking the countdown clock on the tablet Marcus had linked to her device. "If the gantry drops that steel box onto the LNG manifold, the pressure wave will collapse this entire tunnel!"

"Hold on!" Sal bellowed, slamming both heels onto the manual brake lever.

The trolley skidded along the iron rails, steel screaming against steel, spitting an umbrella of orange sparks before slamming to a shuddering halt against the hydraulic bumper at the end of the line.

We didn't hesitate. I leaped off the platform, grabbed the rusted rungs of the maintenance ladder, and began climbing with rapid, rhythmic precision. My lower back burned with the memory of shattered bone, but the muscles Faith had rebuilt held firm, propelling me upward into the belly of the industrial beast.

I hit the release latch of the iron manhole cover and shoved it aside.

The cold night air of Lake Michigan rushed into my lungs, carrying the sharp scent of ozone, lake brine, and diesel exhaust. We emerged onto the metal catwalk sixty feet above the concrete piers of Terminal Four. Far below, the dark waters of the harbor lapped violently against the pilings. Hanging directly above the glowing amber warning beacons of the liquefied natural gas facility was the massive shipping container, suspended by four thick braided steel cables that groaned under immense tension.

Two armed sentries were stationed at the intermediate platform of the crane stairs, their assault rifles slung across their chests as they monitored the distant highway for police sirens.

They never saw us rise from the floorboards.

Sal moved with lethal efficiency, stepping behind the first guard and wrapping an arm around his neck, taking him down into a silent, crushing sleeper hold. The second sentry spun around, raising his barrel, but I closed the gap in three explosive strides, driving my heel into the side of his knee, collapsing his joint before sweeping his weapon over the safety railing into the dark waters below.

"Clear!" I rasped.

Above us, forty feet higher in the glassed-in operator’s cabin of the towering gantry crane, a silhouette stepped to the window.

Matteo Rossi looked down at us, illuminated by the red flashing emergency lights of the automated terminal. He held a bottle of vintage champagne in one hand and a wireless detonator tablet in the other.

"Dominic!" Matteo’s aristocratic voice boomed over the crane’s public address speakers, echoing across the desolate harbor like the voice of a mocking specter. "How delightfully predictable! The crippled dog drags himself across town just in time to see his bone pile turn to ash!"

"Shut down the crane, Matteo!" I shouted, the wind tearing at my clothes. "Your brother is dead, your offshore accounts are frozen, and Interpol has closed every border on this continent! You have nowhere to run!"

Matteo laughed, a cold, unhinged sound that made the hair on my arms stand straight. "I don't need to run, Mr. Carter! When forty tons of steel strike that gas line, we all turn to vapor together! The difference is, my name will be remembered as the man who burned Chicago to the ground!"