Chapter 3 - Into the Lion’s DenThe drive across the Illinois-Indiana border through the biting March sleet felt like driving straight into the mouth of hell.
In the passenger seat of Maso’s armored sedan, I sat in total silence, methodically checking the slide of my father’s .38 Special while Leah prepped a trauma kit in the back. Dante drove, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were stark white.
“Alessandro doesn't know I came to you,” Dante muttered as the decaying, rust-streaked silos of the abandoned Gary grain elevator loomed like monoliths against the gray sky. “He’s walking into that warehouse alone right now with the master drive, planning to trade his own life for Camila’s and wipe out Savich’s men single-handedly. He thinks you’re safe here.”
“Alessandro is a brilliant tactician, but an arrogant fool,” I said coldly, snapping the cylinder of my gun shut with a satisfying click. “He thinks he can carry the weight of the world on his shoulders without ever trusting anyone else. That’s why our marriage died long before he brought Camila to my party.”
Dante glanced sideways at me, a flicker of awe in his dark eyes. “You aren't afraid of him, are you?”
“I loved him once,” I replied, staring out the frosted window at the desolate wasteland. “Fear is just a luxury for people who haven't had to survive him.”
We pulled up behind a row of rusted shipping containers half a mile from the main grain elevator. The wind shrieked through the broken corrugated metal walls, carrying the faint, ominous pop of distant gunfire.
“They’ve already started,” Maso growled, cutting the engine and reaching into the back seat for an automatic rifle.
“No guns blazing yet,” I ordered, opening my door and stepping out into the freezing mud. I pulled the hood of my heavy wool coat over my head. “If Savich’s men see an armed assault, they’ll execute Camila and Alessandro before we reach the loading dock. We go in through the utility service tunnels.”
“How do you know there are service tunnels?” Leah asked, jogging to keep up with my long strides.
“My father appraised Viktor Savich’s family estate jewelry five years ago,” I said flatly. “Savich uses the same architect for all his safehouses. There’s a steam drain running directly beneath the main drying floor.”
We slipped past the perimeter fence like ghosts, utilizing the blinding sleet and the screaming wind to mask our approach. The iron grate of the utility tunnel was rusted shut, but I pulled a titanium pry bar from Leah’s medical kit, jammed it into the latch, and threw my weight against it.
May you like
Clang.
The grate gave way, plunging us into the warm, sulfurous darkness below the slaughterhouse.
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