Chapter 13 - Race Against Time in Wicker Park
The drive from Michigan Avenue across the river to Wicker Park took less than eight minutes, but every second stretched like an eternity as Michael navigated the armored SUV through mid-morning traffic with the sirens wailing under the grille.
"Call Claire's cell phone again," I ordered, staring out the passenger window at the blurring storefronts along Milwaukee Avenue.
"Tried three times straight to voicemail," Michael replied grimly, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "The studio's private security line isn't answering either. Either they've jammed the local cell tower frequencies, or..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. The implication hung heavily in the air between us.
When our vehicle screeched to a halt outside the restored brick loft building that housed Claire’s architectural firm, two unmarked black sedans were idling illegally across the curb with their hazard lights flashing.
"Stay low and cover the rear exit," I instructed Michael, pulling my Glock 19 from its concealed shoulder holster and chambering a round with a sharp, metallic click.
"Boss, let me clear the front threshold first," Michael urged, reaching for his own rifle in the back.
"No. This is my family," I said, pushing the passenger door open and stepping out onto the wet pavement.
I didn't wait for him. I sprinted across the sidewalk, slipping through the heavy glass double doors of the studio lobby into a scene of absolute, chilling silence.
The front reception desk was empty, its computer monitors dark.
Scattered across the polished concrete floor were blueprints, architectural scales, and a shattered ceramic coffee mug that was still dripping dark liquid onto the rug.
"Claire!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the soaring timber rafters of the open-plan loft.
No answer came from the lower level.
I moved cautiously toward the private back offices where Claire’s design suite was located, keeping my back against the exposed brick wall, my weapon raised and ready.
As I reached the open doorway of her private office, I saw her.
Claire was standing near the large industrial window, holding six-month-old Elena tightly against her chest with one hand, her face pale but remarkably steady.
Blocking the exit toward the hallway stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down the side of his neck—Viktor Vance.
He held a suppressed pistol casually at his side, looking over his shoulder as I stepped into the room.
May you like
"Well, look who decided to show up for the family meeting," Viktor sneered, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. "I must admit, Daniel, it wasn't easy tracking down the reformed kingpin of Chicago. But family has a way of drawing out all the right people."
"Put the gun down, Viktor," I said, leveling my Glock directly between his eyes. "You take one step closer to my wife, and you won't live to see the inside of the prison cell your cousin is rotting in."
