Chapter 3 - Shadows on Damen Avenue
The rain outside turned into a blinding downpour, sheets of freezing water lashing against the building's exterior. Roman stood by the window, watching the street below through the edge of a closed Venetian blind. Damen Avenue was typically quiet at four in the morning, but over the last ten minutes, two black SUVs with tinted windows had circled the block twice, moving at an unnaturally slow crawl.
They hadn't used their headlights on the second pass. Salvatore’s bloodhounds had tracked the burner signal or found the vehicle Roman’s driver had ditched.
""Clara,"" Roman said, his voice low and commanding yet completely calm. ""Put your shoes on. It's time for us to take another trip.""
Clara didn't whine or cry. She slipped her worn sneakers over her socks, methodically tying the frayed laces just as her mother had taught her. She grabbed Rosalind by the arm and walked steadily over to Roman. She looked up into his face with complete, unwavering trust. In her innocent mind, the man with the silver signet ring was an invincible guardian.
Roman slipped a suppressed combat pistol into his shoulder holster, zipped up a heavy waterproof tactical jacket, and slung a small duffel bag over his shoulder. He picked Clara up with his left arm, letting her rest against his chest, while his right hand remained free near his sidearm.
""Hold onto my neck, Clara. If I tell you to close your eyes, you close them instantly and do not open them until I say so. Understand?""
""I understand, Roman,"" she whispered into his collar.
Roman didn't take the stairs or the front entrance. He kicked open the rear window of the small kitchen, stepping out onto an iron fire escape slick with rain. The cold air struck them like a physical blow, but Roman shielded Clara beneath the wide flap of his heavy jacket. He moved down the metal steps with feline silence, bypassing the street level entirely to drop down into the narrow, garbage-strewn alley that cut through the center of the block.
At the end of the alley, the silhouette of a man stepped out from behind a brick dumpster, raising a submachine gun.
""Don't move, Viscari!"" the man snarled.
Roman didn't pause. He didn't speak. Before the gunman could squeeze the trigger, Roman fired twice through the fabric of his jacket pocket. The suppressed thuds were barely louder than the splashing rain. The mercenary collapsed into the wet gravel without a sound.
Roman stepped over the fallen man without breaking stride, rounding the corner onto an adjacent residential street where an old, rusted station wagon was parked near a fire hydrant. It was a secondary safehouse contingency vehicle—unregistered, beat-up, and invisible to high-tech surveillance nets. Roman placed Clara gently into the passenger seat, strapping the seatbelt securely across her small chest.
""Eyes open or closed?"" Clara asked timidly.
""You can keep them open now, Clara,"" Roman said, turning the ignition. The old engine coughed, sputtered, and then roared to life. ""You did perfectly.""
As Roman pulled away from the curb, headlights suddenly flooded his rearview mirror. A heavy black Escalade leaped from the intersection behind them, tires screaming against the wet asphalt as it accelerated to ram them from behind.
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Salvatore’s hunters had spotted them.
Roman slammed his foot on the accelerator, whipping the station wagon hard around a sharp corner toward the industrial maze of the South Branch of the Chicago River. The chase was on, and the hunters were about to discover that their prey was the most dangerous predator the city had ever known.
