Chapter 11 - The Final Retribution
The sub-zero wind on the exposed rooftop helipad of Navy Pier was ferocious enough to knock a grown man off his feet.
The twin turbine engines of the Sikorsky S-76 executive transport were screaming at maximum takeoff RPM, throwing clouds of blinding snow into the dark sky.
Director Vance Holloway was sprinting across the ice-coated concrete toward the open cabin door, his suit jacket flapping wildly in the rotor wash.
Two heavily armed private security guards stationed at the helicopter’s landing gear were scanning the rooftop access door with assault rifles raised.
The heavy metal access door blew open with a violent metallic bang as Vincent Romano and Walter Hayes burst onto the snowy roof.
The two Blackridge guards opened fire instantly, high-velocity rounds chipping away chunks of concrete from the rooftop parapet.
Vincent and Walter dropped behind a heavy industrial air handling unit, returning fire in disciplined, overlapping sectors.
Behind them, stumbling through the doorway with agonizing slowness, came Captain Michael Reeves.
Reeves had picked up a discarded automatic rifle from the stairwell, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side, his face grey with impending death.
"Reeves, stay down!" Walter yelled over the deafening roar of the helicopter engines.
Reeves didn't stay down.
He looked toward the helicopter where Holloway was currently grabbing the cabin handrail, preparing to pull himself aboard.
"Seventeen years too late, Walter," Reeves shouted back, his voice swallowed by the shrieking wind.
"Give Mercer his peace!"
Reeves stepped directly out into the open blizzard, completely exposing himself to the enemy crossfire.
He brought the rifle up with his single good arm, resting the barrel against the icy concrete railing, and opened continuous, suppressive fire.
His rounds punched through the helicopter's cockpit glass, shattering the avionics console and forcing the pilot to duck behind the instrument panel.
The two Blackridge guards shifted their fire entirely toward Reeves, their automatic bursts tearing through his chest, abdomen, and thighs.
Reeves took the impacts without falling, his boots anchored to the ice by sheer, unadulterated willpower and remorse.
He emptied the entire thirty-round magazine into the helicopter's rear turbine intake, the high-velocity rounds shredding the compressor blades in a shower of sparks.
The turbine engine exploded in a violent burst of black smoke and sheared metal, the rotor blades sputtering and seizing in mid-rotation.
Reeves finally collapsed onto the snow-covered concrete, a broken, bloody silhouette against the stormy Chicago skyline.
With the helicopter disabled and the guards out of ammunition, Vincent Romano and Walter Hayes broke from cover like hunting wolves.
Vincent’s Kimber .45 roared twice through the blizzard, dropping both mercenaries onto the frozen deck before they could reload.
Director Vance Holloway fell backward off the helicopter’s boarding step, scrambling desperately across the ice toward the sheer edge of the pier.
Below him, forty feet down, the freezing black waves of Lake Michigan churned violently against the razor-sharp breakwater rocks.
Holloway scrambled backward until his shoulder blades hit the safety cable running along the outer rim of the platform.
Vincent Romano walked up to him, his heavy boots crunching rhythmically in the blood-stained snow, his weapon aimed squarely at Holloway’s forehead.
Walter Hayes knelt down in the snow beside Michael Reeves, gently lifting the dying officer’s head onto his lap.
Reeves looked up into the swirling whiteout, his vision fading, his hand weakly searching for Walter’s combat glove.
"Did we... get the girl out?" Reeves whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips.
"Clara is safe, Michael," Walter said gently, holding his former captain’s freezing hand.
"She's safe."
"Tell Mercer... I'm sorry," Reeves choked out in a final, rattling breath.
His hand went limp, his eyes staring blankly into the cold winter sky as the storm gently dusted his face with clean, white snow.
Walter closed the dead officer's eyes with two fingers, whispering a quiet soldier's prayer into the howling wind.
Over at the edge of the helipad, Holloway was shivering uncontrollably, staring up at Vincent Romano with terrified, pleading eyes.
"Romano, listen to me!" Holloway screamed over the wind.
"I have twelve million dollars in untraceable offshore bearer bonds hidden in a vault in Zurich!"
"I will give you the access codes right now!"
"I will transfer every single cent into your family's accounts!"
"Just let me walk away!"
Vincent looked down at the architect of seventeen years of betrayal, human suffering, and murder with eyes as cold as the lake below.
"You think everything in this world has a price tag, Holloway," Vincent said, his voice quiet, steady, and terrifyingly clear.
"You think you can buy a soldier’s honor with forty-five million dollars in cash."
"You think you can buy my family’s name with extortion and fear."
"And you think you can buy your life from a man whose people you tried to slaughter."
"Please, Vincent!" Holloway sobbed, tears freezing on his cheeks.
"I'm an unarmed man!"
"You are not a man," Vincent replied coldly, holstering his Kimber .45.
Holloway let out a gasp of relief, believing for a single second that he had survived.
Then Vincent stepped forward, gripped Holloway by his expensive silk lapels, and hoisted him effortlessly over the safety cable.
"You are a cancer that has been rotting inside this city for seventeen years," Vincent whispered into his ear.
"And tonight, the lake takes its trash back."
Vincent opened his hands.
Holloway screamed as he plunged into the freezing black void, his body vanishing into the churning pack ice of Lake Michigan.
There was no splash, only the cold, unforgiving roar of the frozen lake swallowing another secret into its depths.
Walter stood up from Reeves's body, walked over to Vincent, and looked down at the dark, turbulent water below.
"It's finished," Walter said, his voice stripped of the heavy burden he had carried for nearly two decades.
May you like
"Not yet," Vincent replied, turning back toward the rooftop stairwell.
"We still have a living soldier to bring home."
