Chapter 12 - The Interrogation at Hangar Four
Sixty miles to the southeast, the industrial winds whipping off Lake Michigan battered the corrugated steel walls of Hangar Four.
The Gary Municipal Airport was virtually shuttered under three feet of drifting, unplowed snow.
Inside the freezing maintenance hangar, the twin rotors of an AgustaWestland helicopter sat tethered to the concrete floor, completely disabled.
Dante stood in the center of the oil-stained bay, his heavy combat coat unzipped to reveal the blood-soaked gauze taped across his wounded temple.
In his gloved hand, he held a satellite field radio connected via encrypted line to Victor’s secure headset.
Tied to a heavy steel mechanic's stool beneath the glare of an industrial floodlight was Sylvia Moretti.
Her designer winter parka was torn at the shoulder, and her carefully styled blonde hair was matted with sweat and melting frost.
Her three Louis Vuitton suitcases lay opened and gutted on the concrete floor, their silk linings ripped apart by Dante’s combat knife.
Between her boots lay four burner phones, two high-capacity hard drives, and an open leather case containing five forged passports.
The cherry-blossom lotion that Victor had smelled on his own wool coat was completely masked now by the stench of hydraulic fluid and cold dread.
Dante shoved the speakerphone inches from Sylvia’s face.
“Boss is on the line,” Dante said, his voice as flat and unyielding as an anvil.
“You have about forty seconds to convince him why I shouldn't leave you on the runway for the snowplows to find in April.”
Sylvia looked into the camera of the phone, her voice shaking violently as she fought against the zip-ties cutting into her wrists.
“Victor!” she screamed, her breath fogging in the frigid hangar air.
“Victor, you have to listen to me!”
“My father forced me into this!”
“He told me if I didn’t get your codes, he would have my brother executed in the federal penitentiary in Marion!”
Over the crackling satellite link, Victor’s voice came through the speaker.
It was not the voice of the lover who had spent stolen afternoons in high-rise luxury suites.
It was the voice of a man who had already died and was simply settling debts from beyond the grave.
“Your brother has been dead for fourteen months, Sylvia,” Victor said coldly.
“He died of an overdose in a private clinic in Miami.”
“I paid for his funeral arrangements through an offshore shell company while you were still introducing yourself to me at that charity auction.”
Sylvia’s face went dead white, her jaw dropping as the web of her own lies collapsed around her ears.
“You knew?” she whispered, tears cutting clean tracks through the foundation on her cheeks.
“I knew your brother was weak,” Victor replied over the line.
“What I didn't know was that you were the one holding the leash for Hector.”
“Tell me about the transponders, Sylvia.”
“Tell me what your father has en route to St. Jude’s in Galena right now.”
Sylvia shook her head frantically, terror widening her blue eyes.
“I don’t know their tactical plan, I swear to God!”
“Dante,” Victor commanded through the radio, his tone devoid of any human hesitation.
“Put the barrel against her right kneecap.”
Dante drew his suppressed sidearm with mechanical efficiency and pressed the cold steel directly against the joint of Sylvia’s left leg.
Sylvia shrieked, thrashing against the steel stool until the metal legs screeched against the concrete.
“Stop! Please, Victor, stop!”
“It’s Hector himself!” she sobbed, the words tumbling out in a hysterical torrent.
“He didn’t trust the Iron River crew to finish it after the truck stop blew up!”
“He mobilized his private protection convoy from the compound in Rockford!”
“Twelve men in three armored Ford F-350s!”
“They tracked the backup battery signature inside the infant oxygen concentrator that Nora bought through the medical supply broker in Madison!”
“The broker was on my father’s payroll!”
“They aren’t just coming to kidnap the babies, Victor!”
“Hector knows the federal indictments are coming down next week!”
“He isn’t looking for ransom anymore!”
“He’s going to burn that entire sanitarium to the ground to erase every witness, every record, and every trace of your bloodline!”
Inside the conservatory in Galena, Victor lowered the satellite receiver from his ear.
The roar of the heavy V8 engines climbing the icy switchbacks of the bluff was now audible over the crackling of the fireplace.
Victor spoke into the radio microphone one last time.
“Dante.”
“Boss?”
“Load her into the back of the transport.”
“Hand her over directly to Agent Miller at the FBI field office in Chicago along with every drive you recovered from those suitcases.”
“Include my private ledger from the biometric safe in the penthouse.”
Dante went completely silent on the other end of the line.
“Boss... if I give them your private ledger, you can never come back to Chicago.”
“The feds will seize every property, every account, and every shell company bearing your name.”
“You’ll be an outlaw with a federal warrant on your head before midnight.”
Victor looked across the conservatory at Nora, who was standing now, shielding both infants behind the thick stone archway.
Julian Vance had already grabbed an iron fire poker and was barricading the heavy oak secondary doors leading to the residential wing.
“The empire is already dead, Dante,” Victor said with absolute finality.
“Burn the rest of it.”
“And make sure Sylvia lives long enough to testify against her father.”
Victor cut the connection and smashed the satellite phone against the flagstone hearth, crushing the circuitry to powder beneath the heel of his boot.
He turned toward Julian Vance.
“Where does the auxiliary power junction for this building connect?” Victor asked, his tactical mind engaging with surgical precision.
Julian didn't question him; he recognized the look of a commander preparing his last defensive stand.
“The basement boiler room,” Julian answered immediately.
“It controls the floodlights along the bluff and the industrial snow-clearing heaters beneath the front stone steps.”
Victor pulled off his torn wool coat, rolling up his sleeves over scarred forearms that had survived a dozen backroom wars.
“Julian, take Nora, Sister Beatrice, and the children into the sub-basement wine cellar beneath the chapel.”
“It’s reinforced limestone built during the Civil War.”
“Even an armored truck can’t breach three feet of solid dolomite.”
“What are you going to do?” Nora called out, her voice trembling with a mixture of dread and disbelief.
Victor stopped at the threshold of the conservatory doors, turning to look at his wife one last time.
May you like
“I am going to do the only thing I was ever truly good at, Nora,” Victor said softly.
“I am going to stand between the monster and my children.”
