Chapter 8 - The Voicemail from the Dead
Gunfire erupted in the narrow street below, sharp and rhythmic like popping dry twigs.
Damon grabbed Mia by the arm, hauling her to her feet while scooping the steel box into his left hand.
“Down on the floor!” Damon ordered.
Mia dropped behind the heavy iron radiator as another burst of automatic fire shattered the exterior window panes.
Glass rained down onto the carpet in glittering shards.
Vance leaned out the window frame, returning fire with three controlled double-taps from his nine-millimeter.
“Two black sedans, unmarked!” Vance yelled over the noise.
“They boxed in the Yukon!”
“Cross’s driver took a round through the windshield, but he’s still returning fire!”
Damon looked at the door leading to the hallway.
“The fire escape on the south alley,” Damon commanded.
“Vance, lay down suppressing fire on the street.”
“We move through the rear roof access.”
Mia held her stomach with both hands, terror threatening to paralyze her limbs.
“We can't leave Captain Cross!” she cried out.
“Cross survived twenty-eight years on the Brookfield streets, Mia,” Damon said coldly, pulling her toward the kitchen.
“He knows how to stay behind armor plating.”
“If they get this box, Evan’s truth dies tonight.”
Damon kicked open the small utility window above the kitchen sink.
Outside, an iron fire escape zigzagged down into a pitch-black alleyway filled with overflowing commercial dumpsters.
Damon climbed out first, turning to guide Mia down the rusted metal steps.
The rain poured harder now, soaking through Mia’s thin coat and plastering her hair to her forehead.
The metallic clatter of their footsteps was drowned out by the thunderous roar of the firefight out front.
They reached the alley floor just as a deafening screech of tires signaled a vehicle fleeing down Elm Street.
Damon raised his weapon, scanning the mouth of the alley.
Through the rain and smoke, the Marino armored Yukon came careening around the corner, its front bumper crumpled and passenger side riddled with bullet holes.
The vehicle slid to a halt in front of the alleyway, steam hissing from its cracked radiator grille.
The rear door swung open.
Captain William Cross sat inside, his coat covered in shattered safety glass, his service revolver resting on his knee.
His face was pale, but his hand was steady.
“Get in, damn it!” Cross shouted over the engine roar.
“The Brookfield tactical response unit will be here in four minutes!”
Damon shoved Mia into the armored cabin, diving in behind her as Vance sprinted from the stairwell and jumped into the front passenger seat.
The driver slammed the Yukon into reverse, tires spinning wildly on the wet asphalt before tearing toward the highway.
Mia collapsed onto the leather seat, gasping for breath, her hands clutching the steel lockbox.
Cross leaned over, checking her over with practiced clinical detachment.
“Are you hit, child?”
“No,” Mia breathed, tears mixing with rainwater on her cheeks.
“I’m okay.”
“The baby is okay.”
Damon wiped rain from his eyes and locked the rear doors.
“Who were they, William?”
“Not street muscle,” Cross answered grimly, reloading his revolver with loose rounds from his pocket.
“Professional shooters wearing tactical balaclavas and suppressed carbines.”
“They weren't trying to board the car.”
“They were trying to keep us pinned inside the tenement until a cleanup crew arrived.”
Damon took the burner phone wrapped in foil from the lockbox on Mia’s lap.
“We don't turn this on until we reach the bunker at the docks,” Damon said.
“If it pings a local cell tower, they’ll trace our route within thirty seconds.”
Twenty minutes later, the battered Yukon pulled into an abandoned marine shipping warehouse near the commercial harbor.
The facility was owned by one of Damon’s shell logistics companies, surrounded by ten-foot razor wire and private guards armed with shotguns.
Inside the cavernous, concrete-floored hangar, Damon led them into a climate-controlled mobile command trailer.
He pulled a portable RF-shielding Faraday bag from an equipment locker.
He unwrapped the aluminum foil from the burner phone, placed it inside the transparent window of the Faraday pouch, and pressed the power button.
The ancient monochrome screen flickered to life.
The battery bar showed two remaining bars of power.
There was no SIM card inserted, meaning the device could not connect to cellular networks or broadcast location telemetry.
Mia leaned over Damon’s shoulder, her heart pounding in her ears.
The screen displayed one saved audio recording stored on the device’s internal flash memory.
The recording was labeled: TO MIA — DO NOT PLAY UNTIL OCTOBER.
Mia looked at Damon.
“Play it,” she whispered.
Damon connected an external audio patch cable from the pouch to the trailer’s desktop speakers.
He hit play.
Static hissed through the high-grade speakers for three seconds.
Then, a familiar, raspy voice filled the room.
Mia covered her mouth as a sob tore from her chest.
It was Evan.
He sounded exhausted, his voice thick with gravel and tension.
“Mia... if you’re hearing this, it means I didn't make it to the safehouse in Montreal.”
“It means they caught up with me before I could bring you the new passports.”
“First, I need you to know that loving you was the only clean thing I ever did in my miserable life.”
“I never lied about wanting that porch, Mia.”
“I never lied about wanting to watch our baby grow up.”
“I became Evan Reed to atone for what happened to Frank Collins, but I stayed Evan Reed because being with you made me forget the blood on my hands.”
“Now, listen to me very carefully.”
“The man who ordered the hit on me at the North River warehouse was not my cousin Damon.”
“Damon is ruthless, but he doesn't slaughter his own blood.”
“The man who paid Marcus Vale to burn that warehouse was my uncle, Julian Marino.”
Damon froze.
His entire body went rigid as stone.
Cross gasped, his cane slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor.
“Julian has been working with the state attorney’s task force for three years,” Evan’s recorded voice continued, cold and steady.
“He was feeding information on Damon’s shipping routes in exchange for full immunity and control of the family assets once Damon was indicted.”
“I found the escrow accounts Julian set up in the Cayman Islands.”
“When Julian realized I had the transaction logs, he staged the warehouse fire to silence me forever.”
“Marcus Vale took money from Julian to orchestrate the body swap, but Vale kept me alive as leverage to blackmail Julian later.”
“Julian doesn't just want me dead, Mia.”
“He wants to wipe out any trace of Damon’s bloodline so the family board will ratify his leadership.”
“If Julian finds out you’re pregnant with my child, he will never let you leave Brookfield alive.”
“The proof against Julian is inside locker forty-four at the central railway terminal.”
“Take the files to the United States Marshal Service in Chicago.”
“Do not trust the Brookfield police.”
“And Mia... forgive me for bringing this darkness into your life.”
“I love you.”
The recording clicked off, followed by the cold hum of electronic static.
Mia stood trembling in the center of the trailer, staring at Damon.
Damon’s face had drained of all warmth, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated murderous intent.
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Uncle Julian Marino was the family elder who sat at the head of every Sunday dinner table.
He was the man who had delivered the eulogy at Evan’s memorial service five months ago.
