Chapter 5 - The War in NorthbrookThe snow storm had turned the private gated community of Northbrook into a silent, white wilderness by 5:15 AM.
Standing behind a ten-foot wrought-iron security gate sat the massive, stone-clad estate of Victor Vance. The thirty-room mansion was illuminated by floodlights, two black armored SUVs idling near the grand front portico, four private security guards pacing along the heated stone driveway with submachine guns tucked under their coats.
Inside the private study on the second floor, Victor Vance sat behind a massive mahogany desk, pouring himself a third glass of neat bourbon.
At fifty-nine, Vance was a heavy, broad man with thin gray hair, wearing a tailored silk robe over his trousers. His phone rested on the desk before him, vibrating continuously with unfulfilled callback requests to Miller's team at Lakeview Medical.
"Where the hell are they?!" Vance barked at his chief enforcer, a broad-shouldered man named Gable who stood near the window holding a satellite phone. "Miller was supposed to confirm the girl's death two hours ago!"
"Their phones are dead, Boss," Gable replied nervously, adjusting his shoulder holster. "The signal dropped near the Lakeview trauma wing at two AM. We can't get a line to the fourth-floor security feed either."
"Mancini's men must have locked down the floor," Vance spat, slamming his glass onto the desk. "It doesn't matter. The girl was hemorrhaging when the paramedics scraped her off I-290. Without three units of AB-negative blood, she's dead by morning anyway. There are only two registered donors in Cook County, and one of them is in a nursing home in Peoria!"
BOOM!
A deafening, explosive crash echoed from the front iron gates downstairs.
The massive glass windows of the study rattled in their frames. The floorboards beneath Vance's feet vibrated violently as the heavy sound of tearing metal and shattered masonry cut through the quiet winter morning.
Gable spun around, pulling his automatic pistol, stepping toward the window. "What the hell was that?!"
Down on the circular driveway, my heavy armored Mercedes SUV had smashed cleanly through the wrought-iron security gates, dragging twenty feet of steel fence behind it like a broken chain.
Behind my lead vehicle came four black Suburbans, their high-intensity LED light bars blinding the four driveway guards as twenty of my most elite operators flooded out into the snow, weapons raised.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
Suppressed fire tore through the freezing air. Within seven seconds, Vance's four driveway guards were disarmed and dropped flat onto the snow, their weapons sliding across the slick ice.
Inside the study, Vance's phone began to chime softly.
It wasn't Miller.
It was my private line.
Vance's trembling hand reached out, tapping the speaker button.
"Vance," my voice carried smoothly through the high-definition speaker, flat, cold, and echoing cleanly over the sound of the storm outside.
"Mancini..." Vance choked out, his voice cracking into a high, frantic pitch. "What is the meaning of this?! You're attacking my private residence?! This is a violation of the Syndicate Council charter!"
"The charter was canceled at midnight, Victor," I replied softly. "When you ran my daughter's car off I-290."
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Vance went dead pale, his phone slipping an inch from his ear. "Your... your daughter...?"
"She survived the night, Victor," I whispered into the phone as the heavy oak front doors of his mansion were kicked open downstairs. "And my blood is keeping her alive."
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