Chapter 8 - Fire on the Marsh
The black SUV tore through the dark, unlit service roads skirting the industrial wetlands south of the city, its headlights switched off, running entirely on thermal imaging and GPS coordinates.
In the passenger seat, I gripped the dashboard as the vehicle bounced over potholes. Above us, the low, rhythmic chopping of a private helicopter blades vibrated through the roof.
"That's Vincenzo's chopper," Franco’s voice crackled over the secure radio from the vehicle behind us. "Approaching the marshland drop zone. Moving to intercept."
"Affirmative," Gabriel muttered into his headset, his hands locked tightly around the steering wheel. "Disable the tail rotor, but don't bring the bird down hard. We need Vincenzo conscious."
Through the windshield, a brilliant flash of emerald light lit up the dark sky above the reeds, followed instantly by the sharp pop-pop-pop of a compressed EMP rifle. The helicopter’s tail rotor sputtered, throwing a cloud of orange sparks before the aircraft banked wildly and spiraled down into the thick, muddy marsh grass.
"Target down. Securing the pilot," Franco’s voice reported coolly.
"Keep him breathing," Gabriel ordered. He swung the SUV hard to the left, cutting across an overgrown gravel path toward the sprawling corrugated metal complex of the Moretti 4th Street warehouse.
As we broke through the rusted perimeter fence, blinding halogen floodlights snapped on overhead, bathing our vehicle in harsh, clinical white light. Automated turret cameras tracked our movement, and within seconds, half a dozen armed enforcers spilled out from the loading bays with assault rifles raised.
"They're taking the bait," Gabriel said, shifting the SUV into park right in front of the main personnel doors.
He reached across the console, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it with an intensity that surprised me.
"Stay in the vehicle. Lock the doors," Gabriel commanded. "If I'm not back out in twenty minutes, drive straight to the federal courthouse in downtown Chicago. Ask for Agent Miller. He's on our payroll."
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"I'm not hiding in the car, Gabriel," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and grabbing the door handle. "If Dante Moretti wants to see a ghost, I'm going to give him a front-row seat."
Before Gabriel could argue, I pushed the door open and stepped out into the biting night wind, the headlights casting my long, ominous shadow across the concrete yard.
