Chapter 9 - The Traitor’s Price
The rain had stopped by two o’clock Saturday morning, leaving behind a thick, freezing river fog that smothered the St. Louis waterfront in white silence.
We did not take the armored Navigators.
Ross understood that six luxury SUVs moving north along the levee roads would trigger every spotter Anton Varga had posted at the bridges.
Instead, we took an unmarked 1998 Ford flatbed truck loaded with rusted structural beams, its diesel engine rattling like a bucket of loose bolts.
Frank Miller drove with his headlights set to low parking lamps, navigating the cracked asphalt of Hall Street by the dim yellow glow of the industrial sodium lights.
Ross sat beside him in the cab, wearing a heavy canvas work jacket over dark utility trousers, a short-barreled shotgun resting across his knees.
I sat on the steel floor of the cab between them, wedged against the transmission hump, a portable two-way radio clutched in my lap.
""Vance is twenty minutes out,"" I said, watching the green digital display on the radio.
""He has the Missouri State Highway Patrol and two tactical boats from the Coast Guard staged at the lock and dam.""
""Vance cannot touch the island until we secure the levee gate, Beth,"" Ross answered, his eyes scanning the dark treeline along the slough.
""If the Cook County people see police cruisers on the bridge, they will detonate the breaching charges immediately.""
""They won't care if the river drowns the north side.""
""They will grab whatever bullion they can hook to their cranes and cross back into Illinois before the first siren clears the district.""
The truck slowed to a crawl, rolling onto the narrow, potholed access road that crossed the slough toward Chouteau Island.
Chouteau was not a vacation paradise; it was a bleak, three-thousand-acre spit of alluvial mud, scrub timber, and rusted heavy industry surrounded by the dark, churning waters of the Mississippi.
On our left, the massive concrete pylons of the historic Chain of Rocks Bridge loomed out of the fog like the skeletal ribs of a prehistoric beast.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam swept across our windshield from the darkness beside a locked chain-link gate.
A man in a fluorescent safety vest stepped out of the weeds, holding a semi-automatic shotgun cradled in his arm.
It wasn't a Chicago syndicate soldier.
It was Dr. Clara Evans’s husband, Greg.
His face was hollow, gray with sleepless exhaustion and terrified desperation, his knees trembling inside grease-stained coveralls.
""Hold here,"" Frank murmured, his hand dropping to the suppressed pistol resting on the seat beside him.
""Don't shoot him,"" I whispered urgently, touching Frank's sleeve.
""He's a schoolteacher who lost his business, not a killer.""
""Let me speak to him.""
Ross grabbed my wrist, his grip ironclad.
""Beth, he's guarding a perimeter for the most violent cartel in the Midwest.""
""He's guarding it because Nate has a gun to his wife's head, Ross!"" I hissed, pulling against his fingers until he saw the certainty in my eyes.
""If we start shooting at the outer gate, the element of surprise is gone.""
""Trust me.""
Ross stared at me for two long seconds through the dim cab light.
He released my wrist.
""Two minutes, Beth,"" he whispered, his shotgun rising to point directly at Greg's chest through the open vent window.
""If he moves his hands toward his coat, I drop him.""
I opened the passenger door, sliding down from the high cab onto the wet gravel, the impact sending a familiar, sharp pulse through my injured ribs.
I walked toward the gate with my hands clearly visible at waist height, my steps slow, rhythmic, and non-threatening.
""Greg,"" I called softly into the freezing mist.
The man flinched, almost dropping the shotgun into the mud.
He swept the flashlight beam across my face, blinding me for an instant before recognizing my bruised forehead and stitched hairline.
""Beth?"" Greg stammered, his voice cracking with sheer hysteria.
""What... what are you doing here?""
""You need to run, Beth!""
""They’re crazy down there!""
""They’ve got machine guns, they’ve got dynamite!""
""Where is Clara, Greg?"" I asked, stopping three paces from the chain-link fence.
Greg's face collapsed into an agonizing mask of grief.
""Nate took her,"" Greg sobbed, tears spilling down his dirt-streaked cheeks.
""He brought her to the subterranean slip forty minutes ago.""
""He said if the concrete doesn't crack, Clara has to sign the medical transfer forms using her clinic seal so they can file an emergency probate claim in Illinois.""
""He said if she refuses, Anton Varga is going to throw her into the river intake pipe.""
The horror turned my blood to slush.
Clara had betrayed me out of financial panic, but she was still a human being, a woman I had worked beside for seven years.
Nate was burning every bridge, eliminating every witness, and spiraling into a suicidal frenzy of greed.
""Greg, unlock this gate,"" I said, stepping right up to the steel mesh.
""Beth, they’ll kill you,"" Greg begged.
""They won't kill me, Greg,"" I said, looking back toward the dark flatbed where Ross sat motionless behind the windshield.
""Because I brought the only man in St. Louis who knows how to put monsters back in their cages.""
Greg looked past my shoulder at the silhouette in the truck cab.
He recognized the massive shoulders, the terrifying, motionless posture of Ross Ferry.
With trembling hands, Greg pulled a brass padlock key from his pocket, jammed it into the heavy chain, and pulled the gate wide open.
""There are two spotters on the water tower half a mile down,"" Greg whispered, leaning close to the chain link.
""They have night-vision scopes and heavy rifles.""
""They’re wired into the crane generator.""
Ross stepped down from the truck, crossing the gravel with the silent, predatory speed of a panther.
He stopped beside Greg, towering over the shaking man.
He didn't draw his weapon.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and dropped it into Greg’s coverall pocket.
""What... what is this?"" Greg asked, shivering in the cold.
""Fifty thousand dollars in cash and two train tickets to Omaha leaving from Alton at four in the morning,"" Ross said, his voice flat and absolute.
""Take your car, drive to the Alton depot, and wait.""
""If your wife is still alive when I clear that slip, Frank will deliver her to that platform before the train leaves.""
""And if she's dead?"" Greg choked out.
""Then you go to Omaha alone, Greg,"" Ross said without a shred of cruelty, merely stating the brutal reality of the night.
""Because staying in this valley means a shallow grave in the river silt.""
Greg stared at Ross, swallowed hard, dropped his shotgun into the ditch, and sprinted toward his beat-up station wagon parked in the brush.
Ross turned to Frank.
""Cut the power to the water tower, Frank.""
""Beth and I will take the lower drainage tunnel on foot.""
""You shouldn't take her down there, Ross,"" Frank warned, checking the chamber of his carbine.
""She has three cracked ribs and a concussion.""
""I'm not staying in the truck, Frank,"" I snapped, stepping between the two men.
""I know the hydraulic layout of that slip better than anyone on this island.""
""If you shoot a hole in the wrong valve, you will drown everyone within three miles.""
Ross looked at me, the ghost of that terrifying, proud smile touching his eyes once again.
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""Give her a radio and a sidearm, Frank,"" Ross ordered.
""And then make sure nobody leaves this island alive unless they're wearing handcuffs.""
