Chapter 5 - The Midnight Extraction
"We have to go get it," I said instantly, a surge of adrenaline burning through my exhaustion. "The tackle box isn't in the closet anymore. I moved it two weeks ago when the ceiling started leaking rain into that corner. It's hidden behind the radiator panel in the kitchen. If they rip the closets out, they might miss it, but if they bring sledgehammers to the kitchen walls, they’ll crush it."
Vincent stared at me, his gaze calculating and fierce. "You shouldn't leave this compound. It's too dangerous."
"It's my husband's legacy," I said, stepping closer, holding his gaze without backing down. "Daniel died trying to do the right thing for people he didn't even know. And you lost your sister and your niece to that same monster. Ellie deserves to know her father was a hero, not a careless roofer who slipped on wet tin. You need that drive to finish this. Let me take you to it."
A slow, profound respect flared in Vincent's eyes. He didn't see a helpless, cornered waitress anymore; he saw a mother fighting for justice. "Teresa will stay with Ellie. Marco and four of our best men will accompany us. We move in ten minutes."
By midnight, our armored convoy slipped through the deserted, rain-slicked streets of Chicago, heading toward my dilapidated apartment complex on the South Side. The closer we got, the more the tension inside the SUV grew palpable. Vincent checked a heavy silver pistol, chambering a round with a smooth, practiced metallic click, before sliding it into his shoulder holster. He looked out the tinted window, watching the rain beat against the glass.
"Clara used to tell me that revenge is an empty room," Vincent spoke quietly into the dim cabin, his voice laced with old sorrow. "She said that when you finally hunt down the person who hurt you, all you find inside that room is dust and silence. For five years, I thought she was wrong. I thought killing DeLuca would make the nightmares stop." He turned his head to look at me, his features illuminated by passing streetlights. "When I saw you standing in front of Ellie in my office, ready to fight me to the death to keep her safe... I realized Clara was right. Revenge doesn't fix anything. Protection does. Preserving something pure in a rotten world is the only thing that matters."
Before I could answer, the SUV screeched to a halt half a block from my apartment building. Up ahead, three unmarked black vans were parked haphazardly along the curb, hazard lights flashing in the downpour. Men in construction vests and tactical jackets were moving in and out of the front entrance, carrying heavy toolboxes and metal pry bars.
"They're on the third floor," Marco reported from the front passenger seat, lowering his thermal binoculars. "They haven't touched the kitchen yet. They're tearing through the master bedroom."
"We go through the fire escape," Vincent commanded, turning to me. "Stay between Marco and me. Do not make a sound."
We slipped through the shadows of the alley, navigating the rusted iron rungs of the emergency fire escape. The cold November rain soaked through my jacket, but adrenaline kept my limbs fiery hot. We reached the third-floor kitchen window, which had been painted shut for years. Vincent took a small titanium blade, slit the caulking with surgical precision, and eased the sash upward without a squeak.
We slid into my old, cramped kitchen. The sounds of splintering drywall and harsh profanities echoed from down the narrow hallway where DeLuca’s men were sledgehammering the bedroom closet. My heart pounded like a war drum in my ears. I dropped to my knees beside the cast-iron radiator beneath the sink, wiggling my fingers behind the loose decorative tin plate. My fingernails scraped against cold metal.
"I have it," I whispered, my voice trembling as I pulled out the small, heavy green tackle box, completely intact.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam sliced through the darkness of the kitchen, locking onto my face.
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"Hey! We got someone in the kitchen!" a voice barked from the hallway.
A heavy boot kicked through the pantry door. A burly thug raised a shotgun, aiming straight at my chest. Before I could even scream, Vincent’s body slammed in front of mine like a wall of solid steel.
