Chapter 13 - The Cold River Trap
Midnight arrived under the cover of a freezing November sleet that glazed the decaying iron beams of Pier 19 in slick black ice. The Chicago River churned sluggishly below, dark and impenetrable as crude oil, churning against rotting wooden pylons.
From my vantage point inside an abandoned grain silo two hundred yards away, I lay prone against the cold concrete floor, peering through the high-powered thermal scope of a suppressed sniper rifle. The crosshairs glowed green against the murky dark, framing the rusted slipway where three black Suburbans idled, their exhaust plumes rising like ghosts in the frigid air.
Beside me, Miller monitored four encrypted tactical channels, his headset crackling with static. "Wind speed seven knots out of the northeast, Mrs. Calder. Overwatch team is in position across the railway bridge. If anything goes sideways, you have clearance to fire."
My fingers rested steadily against the trigger guard. Five months ago, the thought of holding a firearm would have sent me into a trembling panic. But the woman who cowered on the floorboards of a Maybach was dead. In her place was Isadora Calder—a woman who had earned her name through fire, standing guard over the man who had redeemed her soul.
Down below, a solitary figure emerged from the shadows of the railway trestle.
Rhys walked alone, wearing a long charcoal coat against the wind, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, carrying a silver aluminum case in his left hand. He didn't rush. He walked onto the salt-stained asphalt of the pier with the relaxed, terrifying confidence of a man who owned the very air the men around him breathed.
The rear doors of the center Suburban swung open. Four armed men in tactical parkas stepped out, their assault rifles raised at low ready. Following them was an older man with silver-streaked hair, wearing a cashmere overcoat trimmed in wolf fur: Lucian Vane.
And beside him, bound in heavy chains and trembling violently against the biting sleet, was the frail figure of Clara Hayes.
Through the scope, I zoomed in on her face. Her cheekbones were sharp, hollowed out by years of confinement, but her eyes—large, defiant, and startlingly gray—were identical to Rhys’s. A purple contusion marked her temple, fresh blood dripping down into her tangled blonde hair.
"You're late, Calder," Lucian called out over the howling wind, his voice amplified by the concrete walls of the river basin.
"I don't keep calendars for dead men, Lucian," Rhys answered, stopping ten paces away. He dropped the silver case onto the wet asphalt with a heavy thud. "The hard drive is inside. Master maritime access for every federal corridor between the St. Lawrence Seaway and the Gulf of Mexico. Let her go."
Lucian signaled to one of his mercenaries, who stepped forward with a rugged field laptop, kneeling to plug an interface cable into the case. Within seconds, a series of green progress bars illuminated the mercenary’s face. "The encryption signatures are authentic, sir. It's the live federal override."
A cruel, victorious smirk spread across Lucian's lips. He pulled a nickel-plated revolver from his coat pocket and pressed the barrel directly against Clara's temple.
"Did you really think it would be this easy, Rhys?" Lucian sneered. "Did you think I would let the kingpin of Chicago walk away with his precious sister so you could hunt me to the ends of the earth? Your father ruined my investments thirty years ago. Your sister tried to expose my human transit pipeline six years ago. And you took the Aldertons from me."
"Lucian," Rhys warned, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent a shiver through my radio headset. "Lower the weapon."
"I don't think I will," Lucian laughed, pulling back the hammer with an audible metallic click. "I'm going to shoot her through the head, blow this pier into the river with twenty pounds of C4 under your boots, and take that cargo ship into Lake Michigan before your little bride even knows you're dead."
May you like
"Not on my watch," I whispered into the freezing air.
Through the scope, I aligned the crosshair with the meat of Lucian's right shoulder, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger.
