Chapter 11 - The Setup at the South Pier
The fog rolled in thick off Lake Michigan, swallowing the skeletal cranes and rusted shipping containers of the abandoned South Pier like a shroud of grey wool. The wind howled off the dark water, carrying the sharp scent of salt, rotting wood, and impending violence.
A single black bulletproof SUV idled near warehouse four, its headlights cutting twin beams through the heavy mist.
Inside the vehicle, the tension was so thick it could be sliced with a knife. Josiah sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were stark white, bloodless bones. Every muscle in his massive frame was coiled like a spring, ready to snap into lethal action. In the passenger seat beside him sat Willow, wearing a tactical harness over her black turtleneck, her face expressionless, her blue eyes fixed entirely on the rusted corrugated metal doors of the warehouse ahead.
"Listen to me very carefully, Willow," Josiah said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly intense register as he turned his head to look at her. "The moment we step out of this vehicle, Rostov’s snipers will have us in their crosshairs. They think you're coming in as a voluntary prisoner to trade for Mia. They don't know about the secondary tactical team I positioned on the roof catwalks."
"I know the plan, Josiah," Willow interrupted, her voice remarkably steady, devoid of any tremor. "I walk through the main entrance carrying the encrypted flash drive with the transfer codes. I keep Rostov talking while you and your men breach the side skylights. Once Mia is secured, all hell breaks loose."
Josiah reached across the console, his large, calloused hand gripping the back of her neck, pulling her forehead gently against his. For a second, the ruthless mafia king vanished, leaving only a desperate man terrified of losing his entire world. "If anything happens to you... if I fail to protect you..."
"You won't fail," Willow whispered, pressing her hand over his, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. "You're the most stubborn man in Chicago, Josiah Mercer. Now let's go get our girl."
They stepped out of the SUV into the biting cold. The damp air hit their skin like ice needles. Willow held a heavy titanium briefcase containing the fake transfer codes in her left hand, her shoulders squared, her head held high. As they approached the towering sliding doors of warehouse four, the heavy iron bolt clicked open from the inside, swinging slowly outward to reveal a cavernous, dimly lit interior illuminated only by swinging overhead work lamps and the pale glow of distant harbor lights.
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Standing in the center of the vast concrete floor, surrounded by a dozen heavily armed mercenaries in tactical gear, was Viktor Rostov. He was a tall, silver-haired man with cold, dead eyes and a permanent, cruel smirk etched across his face.
And tied securely to a metal chair beneath a flickering overhead light, her small dark eyes wide with terror but locked fiercely onto Willow, was Mia.
