Chapter 9 - The Cargo Docks at Midnight
-9-
The Chicago riverfront at 4:00 AM smelled of rotting kelp, diesel fuel, and industrial decay. The Vale Freight Terminal—a sprawling complex of corrugated tin warehouses and rusted shipping cranes—loomed against the dark skyline like a derelict fortress.
Dominic’s unmarked SUV slid silently into the shadows behind a stack of empty steel shipping containers, cutting its headlights a hundred yards from the main gate.
Through the cracked windshield, they could see two guards in heavy tactical gear patrolling the perimeter with automatic rifles slung across their chests. Inside the main office building, a single fluorescent light flickered through a grimy second-story window.
"The side drainage tunnel," Dominic whispered, pointing toward a rusted iron grate partially obscured by tall reeds near the water's edge. "It leads directly beneath the main dispatch floor. Mason won't have sensors down there; he always thought it smelled too bad to patrol."
"Lead the way," Clara murmured, keeping the tactical pistol gripped tightly in her right hand, her ribs still aching but entirely forgotten beneath the surge of pure adrenaline.
They slipped out of the SUV like ghosts swallowed by the fog. The cold river wind bit at Clara’s face as they scrambled down the muddy embankment. Dominic pried the rusted iron grate loose with his combat knife in three silent seconds, sliding into the dark, dripping concrete tunnel ahead of her.
The underground passage was pitch black, smelling of stagnant water and rust. They moved in absolute silence, their boots squelching softly against the wet concrete. After five minutes of crawling and crouch-walking, a faint amber glow appeared ahead through a rusted ventilation grate set into the ceiling.
Voices echoed down from above.
"—the private jet leaves for the Caymans at dawn," Mason Vance’s voice sneered, clear and arrogant. "Once the corporate transfer hits the Swiss bank, Dominic is legally bankrupt, and we disappear into the sun."
"And the kid?" a second voice asked—a heavy, gravelly grunt belonging to one of Mason’s mercenary guards.
"Keep him locked in the back office," Mason replied. "He won't stop crying, but once we're airborne, it won't matter. If Dominic shows up before then, put a bullet in his head and dump him in the river."
Clara glanced up at Dominic through the gloom. In the dim light filtering through the grate, his face looked like a mask of pure, unadulterated vengeance. The veins stood out on his neck, and his knuckles were white around his weapon.
Dominic reached up, grabbed the edges of the rusted ventilation grate, and heaved upward with terrifying, silent strength. The metal screws snapped with a sharp crunch, and he pushed the grate aside, pulling himself up into the dispatch office like a shadow rising from the grave.
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Clara followed right behind him, stepping out onto the dusty linoleum floor of the warehouse office.
They were inside the inner sanctum. And Mason Vance’s back was turned to them.
