Chapter 4 - The Midnight Interrogation
The abandoned Pullman rail yard on Chicago’s south side smelled of rust, diesel fuel, and stagnant water. Abandoned freight cars sat like hollow iron beasts in the freezing drizzle, their graffiti-covered flanks gleaming beneath the distant yellow streetlights.
Roman stepped out of his black SUV, leaving the engine running and the headlights cutting twin beams through the mist. He walked alone toward the center of the derelict repair bay, his boots crunching over shattered glass and frozen ballast.
From the darkness between two rusted boxcars, Grant Mercer stepped into the illumination of the high-beams. He wore his heavy leather overcoat, his gloved hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“You’re late, Roman,” Grant said, his breath pluming in the damp air.
“Traffic was slow,” Roman replied, stopping ten yards short. “The roads are slick. Reminds me of the night Noah’s brakes gave out on the curve near Fullerton.”
Grant didn't blink, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Noah was driving too fast in bad weather. We’ve been over this, Roman. You need to let it rest. For Evelyn’s sake. For your boy’s sake.”
“Evelyn was at your car today, Grant.”
The air turned completely still between them. The only sound was the distant hum of the highway and the rhythmic drip of water leaking from the corrugated steel roof above.
Grant let out a long, slow sigh that sounded almost like relief. He pulled his right hand from his pocket, holding a silver lighter, though he made no move to smoke.
“She told you,” Grant said quietly.
“She showed me the photograph, Grant. Pier 42. You and Vladimir Rostov’s logistics lieutenant.”
“Noah was poking his nose into accounts he didn't understand,” Grant snapped, the smooth facade finally cracking to reveal the desperate, cornered animal beneath. “You were going soft, Roman! Ever since you married that physical therapist, you’ve been talking about divesting. You’ve been moving capital into legitimate real estate, selling off our port shares, turning this empire into a glorified property management firm! What about the rest of us? What about the men who bled to build this kingdom?”
“So you killed my brother?” Roman asked, his voice dead and hollow.
“I didn't cut his lines!” Grant yelled, his voice echoing off the iron rafters. “I swear to you on my mother’s grave, Roman, I didn't want Noah dead! Rostov’s people took the initiative when Noah refused to take the payoff. They staged the crash! I tried to stop them!”
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“And the photo sent to my phone tonight?” Roman stepped forward, his eyes locked on his former friend. “The man standing in the reflection watching my wife? Was that Rostov's man too?”
Before Grant could answer, the red laser dot of a sniper’s sight danced across the wet hood of Roman’s SUV, snapping directly onto the center of Roman’s chest.
