Chapter 5 - Midnight on Ashland Avenue
The rain came down in sheets, turning the asphalt of Ashland Avenue into a black mirror reflecting the amber glow of flickering streetlights. The old meatpacking plant loomed against the dark Chicago sky like a concrete monolith, its rusted corrugated metal siding groaning under the wind coming off Lake Michigan.
Inside the perimeter, hidden behind a stack of rotting wooden pallets across the wet alleyway, a black armored SUV sat silently in park.
Inside, the cabin was pitch black except for the faint blue glow of tactical monitors.
Damian sat in the passenger seat, adjusting the cuffs of his dark tactical turtleneck. His Glock 19 rested in a thigh holster, the matte finish catching no light. Beside him, Victor tapped rhythmically on a ruggedized tablet, monitoring the thermal feeds of the warehouse interior.
“Four guards on the ground floor near the loading docks,” Victor whispered, his voice low and steady. “Two upstairs in the administrative office drinking whiskey. Miller is in the basement office with the captive.”
“And the perimeter?” Damian asked.
“Clean. Cameras are looped on a ten-second delay. They won’t see us cross the fence.”
“Good.” Damian reached for his tactical vest, securing it over his chest. “Let’s go get Leo.”
They moved like phantoms through the pouring rain. Four men in total—Damian, Victor, and two elite operatives from Reyes’s private security detail. They scaled the eight-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire as if it weren't even there, dropping silently into the muddy courtyard of the packing plant.
The heavy steel loading dock door was secured with an electronic magnetic lock. Victor produced a small pocket-sized device, wired it to the junction box beside the door frame, and pressed a single button.
A faint click echoed inside the metal housing.
The heavy door swung open, revealing a dimly lit interior smelling of stale beer, raw meat, and damp concrete.
They slipped inside, boots making virtually no sound on the wet floor. The first guard was leaning against a stack of empty crates, half-asleep, scrolling through his phone. Before the man even realized a shadow had detached itself from the doorway, Victor was behind him. A swift, precise chop to the neck sent the guard slumping silently to the concrete floor.
“Clear,” Victor muttered into his comms.
They moved toward the central freight elevator shaft, bypassing the main floor to descend directly into the subterranean levels where the old refrigeration units had been converted into holding cells.
Down in the basement, the air grew sharply colder. The walls were lined with thick, insulated steel doors, most of them rusted shut. Near the end of the hall, a single incandescent bulb cast a harsh yellow glow over a reinforced wooden door. Muffled sounds leaked from inside—a low, pained groan followed by a harsh, grating laugh.
“You think Reyes is going to save you, kid?” a raspy voice echoed through the hallway. Marcus Miller. “Your sister is probably scrubbing toilets right now while wondering which finger I’m going to send her in the mail first.”
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Damian signaled his operatives to hold position on either side of the door. He stepped directly in front of the reinforced lock, his expression as cold and unforgiving as winter ice.
With a single, explosive kick from his reinforced boot, the heavy wooden door splintered inward, crashing against the concrete wall inside.
