Chapter 8 - THE SHADOWS STRIKE BACK: AN AMBUSH ON THE LAKESHORE DRIVEWAY
It was 1:00 AM when Vincent’s armored Escalade turned off Lake Shore Drive toward his River North penthouse.
The city was quiet, blanketed by a heavy autumn fog rolling in off Lake Michigan, turning the streetlights into hazy orange orbs against the dark asphalt.
In the passenger seat, Leo Donati checked the magazine of his Sig Sauer pistol with a practiced click.
“Arthur’s remaining loyalists in the syndicate are panicking,” Leo said, his eyes darting toward the rearview mirror. “A few of the old captains think you’ve gone soft by letting the feds take down the Sterlings instead of handling it in-house. They’re worried we’re drawing too much heat.”
Vincent stared out the tinted window at the foggy Chicago skyline.
“Let them worry,” Vincent said calmly. “Fear keeps men in line.”
Suddenly, the world erupted.
A heavy black pickup truck slammed head-on into the front of the Escalade, sending the multi-ton armored vehicle skidding across the wet asphalt with a screech of tortured metal and shattering glass.
Before the echoes of the collision could fade, automatic gunfire opened up from both sides of the street.
Bullets sparked furiously against the reinforced steel body and shatterproof glass of the SUV, riddling the doors and blowing out the front tires.
“Ambush!” Leo roared, drawing his weapon and kicking open his door under a hail of lead.
Vincent didn’t panic. Years of surviving the Chicago underworld had forged his reflexes into pure steel. He drew his own firearm from his shoulder holster, scanning the fog-shrouded street through the cracked windshield.
Three masked gunmen were advancing from behind a brick retaining wall, automatic rifles raised, muzzle flashes cutting bright orange holes through the mist.
Leo returned fire, dropping the first gunman with two precise shots to the chest before diving behind the engine block for cover.
The second and third gunmen kept up a blistering rate of suppression fire, driving Vincent and Leo down.
Then, from out of nowhere, a sleek black sedan roared around the corner from a side street with its headlights off, cutting hard across the wet pavement.
The passenger window rolled down, and a figure leaned out with a Remington shotgun.
Boom! Boom!
Two deafening blasts echoed off the concrete canyon of the highway.
The remaining two gunmen dropped their weapons and collapsed onto the pavement, neutralized in a matter of seconds.
The black sedan came to a screeching halt beside the wrecked Escalade.
The driver’s door pushed open, and Chloe Vance stepped out into the rain, holding a smoking shotgun with both hands, her hair flying wild in the wind, her face smeared with soot and rain.
Vincent pushed his damaged door open, stepping out onto the wet asphalt, staring at her in sheer disbelief.
“What in God’s name are you doing here, Chloe?” Vincent demanded, lowering his weapon.
Chloe lowered the shotgun, breathing heavily, her hazel eyes fierce and alive with adrenaline.
“I tracked the burner phone signals of Arthur’s remaining security detail,” she said sharply, wiping rain from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. “They weren't going to wait for a federal trial, Vincent. They were coming for you tonight.”
Vincent looked at the fallen gunmen on the ground, then back at the young woman who had just saved his life for the second time in forty-eight hours.
May you like
A slow, grim smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“Remind me never to play poker with you, Chloe,” Vincent said.
