Chapter 6 - The Ambush at Terminal Four
The armored black Mercedes sped through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago at over ninety miles per hour.
Marco’s lead vehicle cleared the toll gates of the South Side port authority with a flash of high-intensity strobe lights.
In the backseat, the damp smell of gunmetal and rain filled the confined cabin.
My injured right hand rested in a rigid plaster cast, throbbing rhythmically against my chest under the sling Luca had improvised from his silk tie.
“Agent Miller is leading the federal task force at container 804,” Luca said, his eyes fixed on the illuminated tablet displaying port security cameras.
“Miller is on the Bellini payroll,” I murmured, watching the streetlights streak past the tinted windows.
“He has been on their payroll for three years,” Luca replied, his voice dark and flat.
“That is why they chose my shipping container to plant the frame-up.”
“If the feds open that container and find Julianna’s body inside before we arrive, your lawyers won’t be able to keep you out of custody for twenty-four hours,” I said, my heart pounding against my ribs.
“They won’t find a body, Grace,” Luca said, turning his head to look at me in the dim dashboard light.
“Why are you so certain?”
“Because Enzo Bellini is a creature of habit, not a master tactician,” Luca explained coldly.
“He uses predictable warehouses for his contraband, and he always leaves a digital paper trail.”
“What about the ledger we found in the music room wall?”
“The ledger contains every offshore account number Miller uses to launder bribe money into the Cayman Islands,” Luca said, tapping the black leather book resting on his knee.
“When we step onto those docks, Miller is going to make a choice between his federal pension and a federal prison cell.”
The Mercedes screeched to a halt beside a row of towering green shipping containers marked with the Moretti Logistics emblem.
Three federal SUVs blocked the perimeter of container 804, their red and blue emergency lights casting erratic flashes across the wet asphalt.
Agent Miller stood near the container doors, wearing a tactical vest and directing two agents with heavy hydraulic bolt cutters.
“Hold your position in the car, Grace,” Luca commanded, pushing his door open into the pouring rain.
“I’m coming with you, Mr. Moretti,” I said, gripping the door handle with my left hand.
“You stay inside where it’s safe.”
“If Agent Miller sees a Moretti lawyer arrive alone, he will order the bolts cut immediately,” I argued, looking him straight in the eye.
“If I walk out with you as your executive assistant carrying your legal documents, it changes the jurisdictional protocol.”
Luca stared at me for two agonizing seconds, then gave a sharp nod.
“Stay behind my left shoulder, and let me do the talking.”
We stepped out into the freezing midnight downpour, the icy wind stinging my face as we crossed the gravel lot toward the federal agents.
Agent Miller turned around, his badge gleaming under the emergency strobes, a triumphant grin plastered across his face.
“Well, if it isn’t Chicago’s favorite untouchable,” Miller sneered, stepping forward with his hand resting on his service weapon.
“You’re trespassing on an active federal crime scene, Moretti.”
“Put the bolt cutters down, Miller,” Luca said, his voice cutting through the roar of the wind like a razor.
“We have a federal warrant to inspect this container for human remains tied to the Rossi homicide,” Miller retorted, signaling his men forward.
“And I have the exact Swiss bank routing numbers for the five million dollars you received from Enzo Bellini last Tuesday,” Luca countered, holding up the black leather ledger.
Miller’s triumphant expression vanished instantly, replaced by a pale, sweat-slicked panic.
“You’re bluffing,” Miller stammered, his eyes darting toward the ledger.
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“Open container 804 right now, Miller,” Luca ordered, stepping into the agent's personal space.
“Let’s see what your masters actually hid inside.”
