Chapter 6 - Interrogation in the Rain
Adrian walked toward the flickering security light with slow,
measured footsteps,
his heavy boots crunching softly over broken glass and gravel scattered across the muddy alleyway.
He did not bother knocking on the steel door,
instead raising his right foot and delivering a devastating,
hydraulic kick directly beside the heavy brass deadbolt,
shattering the rotting wooden frame with a deafening crash.
The door flew inward,
slamming violently against the concrete interior wall with a thunderous echo that rattled the corrugated metal roof above.
Inside the dimly lit office,
a heavyset man with greasy red hair and a stained leather jacket leaped up from a folding chair,
dropping a half-empty bottle of cheap bourbon that shattered instantly on the floor.
Who the hell are you,
Callahan screamed,
his eyes wide with drunken panic as he fumbled frantically for a snub-nosed revolver resting on a stack of shipping invoices.
Adrian moved with terrifying speed,
crossing the small room in three long strides before Callahan could even clear the holster,
grabbing him by the throat and slamming him backward against a metal filing cabinet with bone-crunching force.
The metal buckled inward with a loud groan,
sending a cascade of dusty papers fluttering down around them like artificial snow.
You're.
.
.
you're Adrian Cross,
Callahan choked out,
his face turning an alarming shade of purple as Adrian's iron grip constricted relentlessly around his windpipe.
Please,
Boss,
I didn't mean to go that far,
it was just a warning,
I swear to God I didn't mean to hurt her that badly.
Adrian's grip tightened just enough to cut off Callahan's air supply completely,
his voice dropping into a terrifying,
deadpan whisper that froze the enforcer's blood in his veins.
You intercepted the wrong car,
Callahan,
Adrian whispered,
his eyes burning with an intense,
frozen rage.
You laid your filthy hands on the wrong woman,
and now you are going to tell me every single name,
every single dollar,
and every single detail of who put you up to this.
I'll tell you everything,
Callahan gasped frantically as Adrian loosened his grip slightly to let him draw a ragged,
desperate breath.
It was the Russians,
Boss,
it was Viktor Petrov,
he paid me fifty thousand dollars to intercept her car and send a message that the books belong to him now.
Adrian stared down at the trembling,
pathetic wreck of a man whimpering at his feet,
realizing with sudden,
May you like
chilling clarity that this wasn't just a random freelance mugging,
but the opening salvo in a full-scale corporate and territorial war for control of Chicago's underground empire.
