Chapter 9 - The Dried Cistern
The black Lincoln Continental glided through the rain-slicked backroads of Cook County like a wraith.
Willow Creek was a neglected industrial pocket north of the drainage canal, surrounded by rusted chain-link fences and overgrown willows.
The old carriage house had once been a livery stable in the nineteenth century, rebuilt with corrugated iron and reinforced concrete during the Prohibition era.
It was the kind of place where men were brought when they were not meant to be found by the living.
Daniel drove with cold, mechanical focus, his tactical radio earpiece blinking with a dim green light.
In the back seat, Luca checked the slide of his suppressed automatic pistol with practiced, silent movements.
I sat in the passenger seat, my head bowed low against the dashboard, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped beast.
"Two hundred yards to the gate," Daniel muttered.
"Infrared shows two heat signatures in the guard shack."
"Three inside the main garage bay."
"No exterior patrols because of the downpour."
"Take out the gate guards quietly," Luca instructed from the back. "Do not let them trip the manual alarm switch."
"Understood."
The Lincoln slowed to an idle as we approached the rusted iron sliding gate.
A halogen floodlight snapped on, blinding us with harsh white glare.
A man in a heavy waterproof jacket stepped out of the wooden shack, holding an umbrella in one hand and an umbrella-covered carbine in the other.
He tapped the driver's side window with the barrel.
Daniel rolled the tinted glass down two inches.
"Where's Miller?" the guard asked, his breath misting in the cold air. "Arthur said Miller was driving the package back."
"Miller had engine trouble on Route 83," Daniel said in a bored, gravelly drawl.
"Arthur told me to bring the maid and the old lady in the Lincoln before the boss arrives."
The guard leaned down, shining his flashlight into the passenger window.
The beam hit my face.
I huddled against the seat, pulling the collar of my coat up to hide my trembling chin, letting out a genuine whimper of terror.
The guard smirked.
"Arthur’s getting sloppy, bringing half the domestic staff out here."
He reached toward the keycard scanner on the post to open the gate.
In that split second, Daniel moved.
The suppressed pistol in Daniel’s right hand fired through the two-inch gap in the glass.
Pfft.
The sound was no louder than a punctured tire.
The guard’s head snapped back, his umbrella flipping into the wet gravel as his body collapsed behind the wooden post.
The passenger door of the shack flew open as the second guard reacted.
Luca had already exited the rear door of the Lincoln.
Two muffled cracks tore through the sound of the falling rain.
The second guard crumpled across the threshold of the shack before he could reach the red emergency button on the wall.
"Gate is open," Daniel whispered, tapping the electronic override.
The iron gate ground back on its rusted rollers.
The Lincoln rolled silently into the gravel courtyard of the carriage house.
Luca moved through the rain like a predator that owned the dark.
He reached the heavy sliding barn door of the main building, signaling for Daniel to take the left flank.
"Stay in the car, Lily," Luca ordered over his shoulder.
"No," I whispered, opening the passenger door.
"What did you say?"
"Elena Rossi is in there," I insisted, stepping into the freezing downpour. "She's eighty years old, Mr. Moretti."
"If your men go in shooting, she could die of heart failure before you cut her loose."
"She knows me."
Luca stared at me through the rain for two seconds, his jaw setting hard.
"Behind me," he commanded. "Not one step ahead."
Daniel kicked the service latch with the heel of his combat boot.
The heavy wooden door flew inward.
The interior smelled of old grease, moldering hay, and copper.
Under the glare of three hanging fluorescent tubes, two men in leather jackets were playing cards on an overturned steel drum.
Across the concrete floor, tied to a heavy timber support beam with yellow nylon rope, sat Elena Rossi.
Her face was bruised, her floral blouse torn, her white hair matted with dried blood.
The two men jumped to their feet, reaching for their holsters.
Luca did not issue a warning.
The suppressed weapon in his hands spat three rapid rounds.
Both men dropped instantly, their cards fluttering across the blood-spattered concrete.
"Elena!" I cried, breaking rank and rushing across the floor toward the wooden beam.
The old woman lifted her head, her swollen eyes struggling to focus in the harsh light.
"Lily?" she croaked, her voice dry and rasping. "Child... did you give it to him?"
"He has it, Elena," I said, dropping to my knees and working at the rough nylon knots with my left hand. "Luca is here."
Luca did not pause to untie the woman.
He walked directly to the center of the concrete garage floor, where an old hydraulic vehicle lift sat rusted in place.
Between the metal rails of the lift was a section of weathered oak floorboards, sealed with heavy steel straps and a rusted master padlock.
Luca raised his weapon and fired three rounds directly into the shackle of the lock.
The steel gave way with a shower of sparks.
Luca ripped the steel straps aside with his bare hands and hauled the heavy oak boards upward.
A blast of cold, stagnant, mold-choked air erupted from the square opening in the floor.
Below, ten feet into the black earth, lay the stone-lined walls of an abandoned nineteenth-century rainwater cistern.
Luca pulled a tactical flashlight from his belt and shone the high-powered white beam straight down into the pit.
At the bottom of the pit, curled on a filthy mattress of wet burlap, lay a skeletal figure.
His clothes were reduced to tattered rags.
His beard was long, tangled, and caked with dried mud.
His wrists were anchored to a rusted iron ring bolt set into the foundation wall.
"Michael," Luca choked out.
The figure on the mattress flinched violently against the blinding light, raising two emaciated, trembling arms to shield his sunken eyes.
"Arthur?" the voice whispered from the depths of the earth, cracking with months of thirst and torment.
"I told you... I won't give you the Zurich cipher."
"I'll die down here first."
Luca’s knees struck the edge of the pit with a sickening thud.
Tears, hot and unstoppable, carved tracks through the grime on the mafia boss’s face.
"It's not Arthur, little brother," Luca wept openly, his voice breaking into pieces.
May you like
"It's Luca."
"I've come to take you home."
