Chapter 5 - The Chase at O’HareThe rain had turned into a relentless downpour by the time our three-car convoy tore through the private aviation gates of O'Hare International Airport.
Luca’s modified Cadillac Escalade smashed right through the security barrier, the reinforced steel bumper sending the automated arm splintering across the wet asphalt. Behind us, two backup vehicles flanked our flanks, cutting off any escape routes toward the private hangars.
“There!” I pointed through the rain-streaked windshield.
A sleek, white Gulfstream private jet sat idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining with deafening intensity. A black town car was parked thirty feet away, its doors open, and a man carrying a heavy leather medical case was sprinting up the folding stairs toward the aircraft door.
Dr. Adrian Vale.
“Luca, cut him off!” I shouted.
Luca didn't need to be told twice. He slammed the accelerator, the Escalade roaring across the wet tarmac, fishtailing dangerously before slamming to a halt right at the base of the jet’s boarding stairs, blocking the entrance completely.
Dr. Vale stumbled backward on the metal steps, dropping his leather case, which popped open upon impact, scattering vials of clear liquid and surgical instruments across the wet metal grating.
The jet’s cabin door opened further, and a pilot peered out in sheer panic.
Before the pilot could retreat inside, Gabriel Moretti stepped out from the back seat of our Escalade.
The rain poured down over Gabriel’s broad shoulders, soaking his black shirt, but he didn't even flinch. He walked slowly across the tarmac, his heavy leather boots splashing through the puddles, his dark eyes locked entirely on the cowering surgeon on the stairs.
Dr. Vale pressed himself back against the fuselage of the aircraft, his face completely drained of color.
“Mr... Mr. Moretti,” Vale stammered, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the words. “I—I was just taking an emergency overseas consultation—.”
Gabriel stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't draw a weapon. He just looked at the doctor the way a butcher looks at a lamb before the slaughter.
“You operated on my back, Adrian,” Gabriel said softly, his voice carrying clearly over the shriek of the jet engines. “You told me it was a routine fragment removal.”
“Vincent... Vincent made me do it!” Vale screamed, sliding down the metal stairs onto his knees, pressing his palms together in supplication. “He said if I didn't administer the paralytic, he’d release the audits on my illegal offshore accounts! I didn't want to kill you, Gabriel—!”
Gabriel climbed the first two steps, towering over the shaking doctor.
“You violated the one rule that keeps men like us alive in this city,” Gabriel said coldly. “You brought a doctor’s white coat into a blood feud.”
Gabriel reached out, grabbed Vale by the collar of his expensive wool coat, and hauled him off the stairs like a sack of laundry, dropping him hard onto the wet tarmac at my feet.
I stepped forward, picked up one of the unbroken glass vials that had tumbled from Vale’s case, and held it up to the light of the runway lamps.
“Synthetic metabolic blocker, batch number 44-B,” I said, looking down at the groaning surgeon. “Manufactured exclusively by a black-market pharmaceutical lab in Zurich that was raided by federal agents three months ago. Dr. Vale didn't just help Vincent; he’s been running a regional distribution ring for experimental paralytics.”
Luca stepped up beside me, snapping handcuffs onto Vale’s wrists with brutal efficiency.
“Federal marshals are going to love this,” Luca muttered, hauling Vale to his feet. “And the syndicate board is going to love knowing exactly why Vincent tried to steal the throne.”
Gabriel turned around, walking back through the rain toward where I stood. The storm was fierce, drenching us both to the skin, but as he stopped in front of me, the tension that had gripped his frame for the past twenty-four hours was entirely gone.
“You’re a remarkably dangerous woman, Nurse Clara,” Gabriel said, a faint, genuine smile breaking through his stern expression.
“I told you, Mr. Moretti,” I replied, wiping the rain from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I’m a trauma specialist. I deal with wrecks every single day. Your family just happened to be the most expensive one I’ve ever towed out of a ditch.”
Gabriel reached out, gently taking my hand—not with the bone-crushing force of a feverish mafia boss, but with a firm, steady warmth.
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“My debt to you isn't something a standard agency invoice can cover,” Gabriel said quietly. “Name your price. Anything in Chicago is yours.”
“Just pay your medical bills on time, Mr. Moretti,” I said, pulling my hand back with a dry smile. “And next time you need a nurse, hire someone who doesn't run away before midnight.”
