The gates hum open, revealing the dark, wet streets of Chicago. The city is a body full of hidden arteries, and tonight, finally, I know where to cut.
“Ready?” I ask.
She turns to me, and the look in her eyes is enough to bring a man to his knees. “Let’s go find Vane.”
I floor it, the engine roaring as we burst out into the night.
The drive to the South Loop is silent, but it’s not an empty silence. It’s thick, pressurized. Every time I reach for the console, my arm brushes hers. Every time I check the mirrors, I see her reflection, watching me. I can feel her questions, her doubts, her mounting adrenaline.
I know this part of the city. It’s a graveyard of industry, all crumbling brick and rusted iron. It’s where the Bellantis do their dirtiest work because the shadows here are deeper than anywhere else.
I pull the SUV into a narrow alley three blocks away from the coordinates. I cut the lights and the engine. The world goes black and quiet except for freezing rain ticking against the roof.
“We walk from here,” I whisper.
I reach into the back seat and pull out a tactical vest. I hand it to her. “Put this on. Under your coat.”
She takes it without argument. Her hands are steady as she buckles the straps. I put on my own, then check my sidearm. The weight of the metal is familiar, a grim comfort.
“Do you have a weapon?” I ask.
She pulls a small, sleek pistol from her waistband. I recognize the model—high-capacity, low-recoil. It’s a professional’s tool.
“I’ve carried since I was twenty-one,” she says. “I don’t like being defenseless.”
“Good,” I say. I reach out and tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger on her skin. I want to say too much, and none of it belongs in an alley three blocks from Vane.
But the words get stuck in my throat. I’m not a man of words. I’m a man of action.
“Stay behind me,” I say instead.
We slip out of the car and into the rain. The cold is a shock, biting through my layers, but I welcome it. It keeps me sharp. We move like shadows, sticking to the walls, our footsteps muffled by the trash and debris littering the alleyway.
The building is an old printing press, four stories of soot-stained brick and boarded-up windows. It looks abandoned, but I can see the faint shimmer of a high-end security camera tucked under the eaves.
“There,” I whisper, pointing to a side door. “The internal router tagged the second floor.”
Amara nods. She’s already looking at the keypad by the door. She pulls a small device from her pocket—a signal interceptor. She’s not just a hunter of numbers; she’s a hunter of systems.
“Give me two minutes,” she breathes, “and pray their hardware is as old as the building.”
I stand over her, my body shielding her from the rain and any prying eyes. I scan the street, my hand resting on the grip of my gun. My heart is a steady, heavy drum. This is what I was built for. Protection. Vengeance.
The keypad beeps, a tiny green light flashing.
“I’m in,” she whispers. “But I tripped something on the way. We won’t have long.”
She turns the handle and the door swings open with a soft groan. We slip inside, the air smelling of oil and stagnant water.
It’s pitch black. I pull out a small infrared light and flick it on. Through my tactical lenses, the world turns green and depthless.
“Stairs are to the left,” I say.
We move up the stairwell, our breathing the only sound in the cavernous space. My senses are dialed to ten. I can hear the hum of the building’s electrical system, the distant drip of a leak, the scratch of a rat in the walls.
We reach the second-floor landing. I peer through the crack in the door.
A long hallway stretches out, lit by flickering fluorescent tubes. At the far end, a door is cracked open, a warm light spilling out onto the floor. I can hear the low murmur of voices.
