Chapter 3 - Blood on the Channel
Vincent reached into his coat and pulled out his phone.
The screen glowed against the dim shadows of the shed.
Against all logic, a single sliver of satellite connection had breached the storm.
There was one new text message waiting.
The sender was Michael Romano.
Vincent’s twenty-six-year-old younger brother.
The message read:
WHERE ARE YOU?
Vincent stared at the green text bubble.
Michael had remained in Chicago to manage the family’s downtown logistics firm.
He was not supposed to know anything about the timing of this trip beyond the fact that Margaret wanted to see the lodge.
Before Vincent could even think of typing a response, a second message flashed across the glass:
DO NOT GO TO THE RANGER ROAD.
Lily propped herself up on her elbows on the workbench, watching Vincent’s face go pale in the dim amber radio light.
"Vincent?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"What is it?"
"It's Michael," Vincent said quietly.
Margaret took a sharp step forward, her cane clicking against the floor.
"Call him," Margaret ordered.
Her voice was suddenly devoid of any grandmotherly warmth; it was the tone of a woman who had spent half a century surviving assassinations.
Vincent tapped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear.
The satellite line crackled with terrible static.
The call connected on the very first ring.
"Vincent?" Michael’s voice was strained, breathless, and terrified.
"Where the hell are you?"
"How do you know we aren't at the main lodge?" Vincent asked coldly, refusing to answer the question.
Silence stretched over the line.
Five long, agonizing seconds of static.
"Answer me, Michael," Vincent snarled into the receiver.
"Because the men who are hunting you called me ten minutes ago," Michael whispered.
Vincent felt the blood in his veins turn to liquid nitrogen.
"Who are they?" Vincent demanded.
"They're contract cleaners from Montreal," Michael said, his voice breaking.
"Vincent, you don't understand what’s happening. They don't want you. They were hired to secure Grandma."
Vincent turned his head slowly toward Margaret.
The old woman stood completely motionless, her eyes fixed on the cracked wooden floorboards.
She did not look surprised.
She looked resigned.
"Why would anyone hire Canadian mercenaries to take a seventy-nine-year-old woman?" Vincent hissed into the phone.
"Ask her about the Romano Trust," Michael replied.
"Ask her what Dad left in the offshore safety deposit vaults in Zurich before he drove his car off the bridge eleven years ago."
Vincent’s world tilted on its axis.
Eleven years ago, his father, Anthony Romano, had died in a fiery single-car wreck on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
The state police had ruled it driver fatigue.
The family had accepted it.
Vincent had taken over the syndicate’s operations at age twenty-three because of that tragedy.
"What did Dad leave?" Vincent asked, staring directly into his grandmother’s eyes.
"Evidence," Michael whispered through the receiver.
"Dad didn't fall asleep at the wheel, Vincent. The brake lines were cut."
"And Grandma has the audit files that prove which member of the Chicago Commission paid for the hit."
"They’re liquidating the family assets because whoever killed Dad is making their final move to take everything."
"Michael," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal register.
"How do these men know your number?"
Another horrifying silence descended on the phone call.
"Michael," Vincent repeated.
"They... they took my wife, Vincent," Michael wept openly now.
"They have Sarah at a warehouse near O’Hare. They said if I didn't give them your GPS coordinates from the Escalade’s tracking app, they would put a bullet in her skull."
"You gave them the lodge coordinates," Vincent stated flatly.
"I had to save my wife!" Michael cried.
"I didn't know they would cut the power! I thought they just wanted to negotiate with Grandma for the documents!"
"You gave them our location in a blizzard, you coward," Vincent whispered.
"Vincent, please—"
Vincent cut the call.
He slid the phone back into his coat pocket.
The shed was dead silent, save for the hissing static of the emergency radio.
Lily was staring at Margaret with wide, horrified eyes.
"Mrs. Romano?" Lily whispered.
"Is that true?"
Vincent stepped closer to his grandmother, his shadow looming large in the cramped space.
"Is Michael telling the truth?" Vincent asked.
"Did someone kill my father?"
Margaret looked up at him.
Her eyes, usually clouded with age, were piercing and sharp.
"Your father found out that our inner circle was laundering money for the Marcone family," she said calmly.
"He compiled thirty years of ledger books, bank statements, and recorded conversations onto an encrypted hard drive."
"He put it in a vault only I have the biometric key to open."
"Why didn't you tell me when I took over?" Vincent asked, his hands balling into fists.
"Because you were twenty-three years old, hot-headed, and arrogant," Margaret replied without flinching.
"If I had given you those names eleven years ago, you would have gone to war and been slaughtered within a month."
"I waited until you built your own empire."
"Until you were strong enough to survive what was coming."
"Well, they’re here now," Vincent said bitterly.
Suddenly, a bright beam of light sliced through the wooden slats of the utility shed.
Twin headlights bathed the interior in harsh, blinding lines of light and shadow.
The deep, rhythmic rumble of a heavy diesel engine shook the frozen ground beneath their feet.
They had followed the maintenance path.
Vincent killed the power switch on the emergency radio instantly.
He drew his Glock, sliding silently against the wooden wall beside the door.
Lily pulled herself flat against the workbench, her breathing shallow and terrified.
Through a narrow gap between two rotting boards, Lily peered out into the snow.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Vincent," she whispered, her voice trembling with sheer terror.
Vincent didn't look away from his sightline.
"What?"
"The man walking in front of the truck," Lily whispered.
"Look at his jacket."
Vincent leaned toward the crack in the wall, looking down the sights of his weapon.
Through the swirling curtain of white snow, a tall, broad-shouldered man was approaching the shed on foot.
He held a high-powered flashlight in one hand and a suppressed pistol in the other.
Emblazoned on the left chest of his black tactical parka was an embroidered silver falcon clutching a dagger.
It was the personal crest of Vincent Romano’s inner security detail.
The man carrying the gun was Marco Vane.
The head of Vincent’s personal protection team in Chicago for six years.
A man Vincent had trusted with his life, his money, and his family.
Marco stopped ten paces from the shed, raising his flashlight directly at the door.
"Vincent!" Marco’s voice boomed over the howling wind.
May you like
"We know you're in there, boss."
"Step outside with your grandmother, and nobody has to die tonight."
