Chapter 10 - The Riverfront Ambush
A week of relentless, bruising training transformed the fear inside me into a cold, sharpened instinct.
The morning mist hung thick over the Chicago River as my silver Lexus sedan navigated the industrial corridor near Goose Island.
I was heading toward my commercial graphic design studio, determined not to let the growing shadow of syndicate tensions paralyze my professional life.
Behind me, fifty yards back, an unmarked black sedan driven by Dante and two of Cole’s best tactical men trailed discreetly, keeping watch without crowding my space.
It was supposed to be a routine Tuesday morning commute, but as I signaled a left turn onto the rusted iron bridge crossing the canal, a massive flatbed delivery truck suddenly pulled out from an alleyway, stalling directly across both lanes of traffic.
I slammed on my brakes, my tires screeching as the Lexus stopped ten feet short of the flatbed’s steel bumper.
My rearview mirror flashed with rapid movement as a rusted cargo van screeched to a halt right behind me, boxing my vehicle completely onto the narrow span of the bridge.
Before Dante’s security vehicle could ram through the obstruction, four armed men wearing balaclavas spilled out from the cargo van, carrying iron pry bars and short-barreled automatic pistols.
Among them, stepping out from the front passenger seat without a mask, was Derek Vaughn.
His face was a grotesque canvas of yellowing bruises, a split eyebrow held together with surgical butterfly bandages, and eyes hollowed out by madness and chemical stimulants.
His father’s clinics had been seized, his family was ruined, and he had clearly traded his last shreds of sanity to Dominic Rossi’s West Side enforcers for a chance at revenge.
Get out of the car, Sarah, Derek screamed, his voice cracking like a whip as he smashed the heavy iron bar against my driver’s side window, spiderwebbing the reinforced glass.
Your husband ruined my entire life over an eight-minute sparring round, and now you are coming with us to explain the damage to Rossi.
My heart slammed against my ribs, but the paralyzing panic that had consumed me at Apex Grappling was completely gone, replaced by a strange, icy calm.
I did not scream, I did not cry, and I did not reach for my phone to beg for help.
I remembered Cole’s words in the fortress below the earth: Stop pushing what is strong; attack the biology that cannot be reinforced.
I shifted the Lexus into reverse, stomping the accelerator with all my weight.
The heavy German sedan roared backward, smashing into the front bumper of the cargo van with a deafening crunch of crumpling metal and shattering headlights, throwing two of the armed men off their feet.
Derek lunged forward in blind fury, thrusting his iron bar through the fractured glass of my window to grab my shoulder.
I caught his wrist with both hands, twisting his thumb backward against the joint with the exact, vicious torque Cole had drilled into me two days before.
Derek shrieked in sudden agony as the ligament popped, dropping the iron bar onto my lap.
Before the other gunmen could raise their weapons, the sharp, rhythmic crack of suppressed gunfire shattered the morning fog.
Dante had already breached the perimeter, moving across the bridge with military precision, his tactical sidearm eliminating the armed threats with chilling efficiency.
Tires screamed behind the flatbed truck as a sleek black Cadillac Escalade rammed straight through the wooden barricade on the far side of the bridge.
The driver’s door flew open before the vehicle had even come to a full stop.
Cole Moretti stepped out into the mist, wearing a dark trench coat, a heavy custom pistol held securely in his right hand, his face transformed into a mask of pure, apocalyptic vengeance.
Derek scrambled backward across the wet asphalt on his hands and knees, clutching his broken wrist, staring at the approaching titan with eyes full of absolute, weeping horror.
Cole did not speak a single word.
He walked past the fallen enforcers without breaking his stride, stopping five feet from where Derek lay shuddering against the bridge railing.
You were told to leave Chicago, Vaughn, Cole said, his voice quiet enough to be swallowed by the rushing waters of the river below.
Mr. Moretti, please, Derek cried, his voice dissolving into pathetic, gasping whimpers as he raised his uninjured hand in futile surrender.
Rossi gave me the money, Rossi told me she was unprotected on Tuesdays, it was Rossi’s plan, I swear to God it was Rossi.
Cole stopped, looked down at the broken athlete who had thought violence was a game played without consequences, and then looked toward Dante.
Secure the bridge, Dante, Cole instructed, never taking his eyes off Derek.
Then Cole turned his gaze toward my shattered driver’s window, meeting my unblinking eyes through the cracked glass.
Are you hurt, Sarah? Cole asked, the lethal storm in his voice parting to reveal an ocean of protective devotion.
May you like
Not a scratch, Cole, I answered, holding Derek’s dropped iron bar firmly in my hands.
Cole nodded slowly, a terrifying look of pride and finality settling over his dark features as he raised his weapon toward the man on the ground.
