Chapter 5 - Blood Across the Frozen Lake
The iron rungs of the fire escape were slick with sleet as Callum lowered Hazel into the narrow, trash-strewn alleyway behind the brownstone.
Behind them, flashlight beams swept through the smoke-filled windows of the third floor, followed by the frustrated curses of federal tactical officers.
In the alley, Frank Moretti was waiting behind the wheel of an old, unregistered Ford sedan—the armored town car had already been abandoned to draw pursuit elsewhere.
“Get in! Get in!” Frank hissed, kicking the passenger door open from the inside.
Callum shoved Hazel into the back seat, diving in after her as Frank slammed his foot on the accelerator.
The tires shrieked against the wet cobblestones, sending the car sliding sideways into the street just as two unmarked black tactical SUVs turned the corner with their sirens wailing.
Bullets shattered the rear window of the Ford, raining safety glass over Callum and Hazel as they ducked low against the floorboards.
Frank whipped the steering wheel hard to the left, darting through a narrow commercial delivery ramp that led underneath the elevated train tracks of the Brown Line.
The heavy concrete pillars of the L-train flashed past in a dizzying blur of rust and shadows.
“Where are we going, Callum?” Hazel asked, her hands shaking as she pulled glass shards from the collar of her blouse.
“The docks are crawling with state police,” Frank shouted over the roar of the engine.
“The penthouse on Michigan Avenue is surrounded. The safehouses in Oak Park are all under surveillance. We have nowhere to run within city limits.”
Callum pulled a fresh magazine from his coat, slid it into his Kimber, and chambered a round with a metallic snap.
“Take us to the old pumping station at Montrose Harbor,” Callum ordered.
Hazel looked at him in disbelief.
“The pumping station? That facility was decommissioned forty years ago. It’s an open tomb on the edge of the lake.”
“It’s the only property my father owned that was never listed in the corporate filings,” Callum said, turning his bruised face to look directly into her eyes.
“Arthur used it during the winter of 1998 when the North Side factions tried to bomb our family home. The basement connects to an old storm runoff pipe that empties into the lake. It has a diesel generator, dry clothes, and a radio that doesn't ping federal towers.”
Frank navigated the darkening streets through a blizzard of sleet, dodging police cruisers that were sweeping the main avenues with searchlights.
Thirty minutes later, the sedan lurched to a halt behind a crumbling brick structure that jutted out into the black, churning waters of Lake Michigan.
The wind coming off the water was merciless, whipping waves of freezing spray against the stone breakwater.
Frank killed the engine and the headlights.
“I’ll stay in the car and watch the access road,” Frank said, checking his revolver.
“If you see headlights, don’t play the hero, Frank,” Callum said, placing a heavy hand on his old friend’s shoulder.
“Ditch the vehicle and take the train south.”
“I’ve been with the Sullivan family for forty years, Callum,” the old enforcer replied with a weary, bloodstained smile.
“I ain’t learning how to ride public transit now.”
Callum led Hazel through a rusted iron door secured with an old padlock, which he severed with a heavy iron pry-bar retrieved from the wall.
Inside, the pumping station was cavernous, freezing, and filled with the thunderous roar of the lake beating against the stone foundation.
Callum located the manual breaker box and threw the master switch.
A string of low-wattage yellow bulbs flickered to life along the concrete rafters, illuminating rusted iron valves, abandoned brass gauges, and decades of dust.
Hazel wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently in her damp silk blouse.
Callum stripped off his heavy wool overcoat and draped it around her shoulders.
The coat swallowed her small frame entirely, carrying his warmth and the scent of gunpowder, rain, and cedar.
Hazel looked down at the heavy fabric, her lips trembling.
“You should have put a bullet in my head back at the apartment, Callum.”
Callum walked over to an old wooden crate, sat down, and leaned his elbows on his knees, staring at the concrete floor.
“I’ve killed men for far less than what you did tonight, Hazel.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Callum looked up, his dark eyes hollowed by exhaustion and an agony that went far deeper than physical wounds.
“Because when I saw those hydrangeas on your desk this morning, I didn’t think about the shipping lanes. I didn’t think about the federal grand jury. I didn’t think about my father’s empire.”
He stood up and walked toward her, each step deliberate, until he stood close enough to feel the cold trembling of her breath against his neck.
“All I could think was that some other man was going to hold your hand. All I could think was that after three years of watching you keep my broken life together, you were going to leave me for someone who didn't have blood on his hands.”
Hazel stared at him, her gray eyes widening as tears spilled over her pale cheeks.
“You're insane, Callum Sullivan.”
“I know,” he whispered, reaching out with a calloused, ink-stained thumb to wipe a tear from her cheekbone.
“And that makes you a fool for staying.”
Before Hazel could reply, the iron door of the pumping station creaked open behind them.
A tall, lean figure stepped through the threshold, silhouetted against the white flurry of the snow outside.
May you like
He was wearing a tailored gray trench coat and holding a black semi-automatic pistol fitted with a carbon-fiber silencer.
“Touching scene, little sister,” Julian Vance said, his voice smooth and dripping with twenty years of unadulterated venom.
