Chapter 19 - The Hunter Becomes the HuntedThe sun dipped below the Chicago skyline, casting long, bruised shadows across downtown as my black SUV slid silently into the industrial district near the Chicago River.
According to the tracker Vance had managed to plant on the Zurich data packet’s ping, the signal originated from an abandoned grain silo on the edge of the canal—a desolate, wind-swept stretch of concrete and rusted iron.
I parked three blocks away, cutting the headlights, and moved on foot through the shadows. The cold night air carried the sharp scent of river water and damp concrete.
Using my thermal monocular, I scanned the silo. Three heat signatures on the second-floor gantry. Armed. Professional. Wearing tactical gear that didn't belong to any local street gang or syndicate enforcers. These were ghost soldiers—trained killers belonging to the Seven Circles.
I drew my sidearm, keeping it close to my chest, and slipped through the rotting wooden doors of the silo.
The interior was cavernous and pitch black, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the broken windows above. I climbed the rusted metal staircase step by step, my boots making zero sound against the grating.
Click.
A cold barrel of a suppressed rifle pressed firmly against the back of my neck.
"End of the line, Moretti," a smooth, chillingly calm voice whispered from the darkness behind me. "The Circles send their regards."
I didn't panic. In the mafia underworld, death was an occupational hazard you learned to manage.
"You should have checked my perimeter first," I replied smoothly.
Before the assassin could squeeze the trigger, a suppressed gunshot rang out from the shadows across the gantry. Vance—who had tracked my GPS and disobeyed my direct order to stay behind—put a precise 9mm round through the assassin’s shoulder.
The man gasped, dropping his rifle with a clatter.
I spun around instantly, sweeping his legs out from under him and slamming him hard against the concrete floor. I pressed my gun squarely between his eyes.
"Who sent you?" I demanded, pressing the barrel down until he flinched. "Who is leading the Circles in Chicago?"
The assassin coughed up a fleck of blood, a twisted, defiant smile spreading across his pale lips. "You think... you won, Moretti? The papers... the children... they were just the first wave. The real game has already begun."
Before I could pull the truth out of him, a tiny red laser dot flickered across his forehead.
Crack.
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A sniper round crashed through the broken window overhead, piercing the assassin’s skull before he could utter another word. He slumped backward, lifeless.
"Sniper across the canal!" Vance shouted over the comms, firing blindly toward the opposite window. "Get down, boss!"
