Chapter 2 - Shadows of the South HarborThe wind off Lake Michigan howled against the reinforced glass of my private elevator as I descended into the subterranean garage. My customized matte-black Panamera waited with its engine idling, the V8 hum vibrating through the concrete floor. Marcus was already in the passenger seat, his laptop glowing in the dim light, displaying a chaotic grid of traffic camera feeds and satellite tracking data.
"Talk to me," I ordered, slamming the driver's door shut and throwing the car into gear. Tires shrieked against the polished concrete as I tore toward the exit ramp.
"We lost her primary vehicle signal, but traffic cameras caught the interceptor heading south toward the old decommissioned dry docks at South Harbor—property directly managed by Vincent’s private real estate portfolio," Marcus rattled off, his fingers flying across his keyboard. "There's a perimeter guard of at least six men. Professional detail. Ex-military, judging by their spacing."
"Good," I muttered, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. "I was looking for an excuse to break something."
The drive through the Chicago night was a blur of neon streaks and rain-slicked asphalt. The city that looked so majestic from my penthouse windows felt different down here—dark, predatory, and full of secrets. For years, I had believed I was the monster of this city, the ruthless billionaire who crushed rivals without blinking. Now I realized I was just a puppet in a play written by the man who had taught me how to hold a pen.
We ditched the car three blocks away from the dry docks, slipping through a rusted chain-link fence like ghosts. The rain began to fall harder, washing away the scent of ozone and diesel, leaving behind the bitter tang of rusted iron and stagnant lake water.
The warehouse was massive, its corrugated metal siding battered by decades of Great Lakes storms. A single overhead light flickered above the loading bay door, casting long, distorted shadows across the wet pavement.
"Two guards by the main entrance, four patrolling the perimeter," Marcus whispered, crouching behind a stack of shipping crates. "We go in quiet, or do we kick the door in?"
"Quiet is for men who have something to hide," I said, drawing the custom-weighted SIG Sauer from my shoulder holster. "We announce our arrival."
Before Marcus could argue, I stepped out from the shadows and marched straight toward the loading bay.
The two guards turned sharply, their hands dropping instantly to their tactical vests. "Private property. Turn around—"
The first man didn't finish his sentence. I closed the distance in three long strides, sweeping his legs out from under him and driving the butt of my pistol into his temple before he hit the concrete. The second guard lunged for his radio, but Marcus was already there, tackling him into a stack of empty pallets with a sickening crunch.
"Clear," Marcus hissed, checking his sidearm.
I walked up to the heavy steel pedestrian door adjacent to the loading bay, raised my boot, and kicked it inward with enough force to shatter the reinforced latch. The door crashed against the interior wall with a deafening bang that echoed through the cavernous warehouse.
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Inside, under the glare of industrial halogen work lights, a chair sat in the center of the concrete floor.
And strapped to it was the seventh woman.
