Chapter 9 - The Trap at the HarborThe wind coming off Lake Michigan at midnight was brutal, howling through the rusted iron skeletons of the abandoned rail yards like the cries of the damned. Towering stacks of rotting shipping containers cast long, jagged shadows across the cracked concrete, illuminated only by the pale, sickly glow of distant industrial yard lamps.
Camila sat in the passenger seat of Lorenzo’s black town car, her fingers digging so hard into the leather armrest her nails left white impressions.
“You can't go in there alone,” she pleaded for the tenth time, turning to look at Lorenzo as he calmly checked the magazine of his Sig Sauer and slid it into his shoulder holster. “It’s a trap! District Attorney Vance knows you’re coming. He’ll have twenty snipers waiting on those containers!”
Lorenzo turned his head, his dark eyes softening just a fraction as he reached out and gently placed his large, warm hand over her trembling fingers.
“They want my empire, Camila,” Lorenzo said, his voice steady and absolute. “They want my territory, my routes, and my submission. But they made one fatal mistake.”
“What mistake?” she whispered.
“They touched what belongs to me,” he said, leaning over and pressing a brief, fierce kiss against her forehead—the first time he had ever shown such unfiltered tenderness in the face of war. “Stay in this car. Lock the doors. If I am not back in twenty minutes, Vince has orders to drive you across the state line to safety.”
“No!” Camila grabbed the lapel of his coat, tears finally spilling over her lashes. “I won't let you walk into a execution squad alone! If they want a trade, let them trade me! I’m the one they’ve been watching!”
Lorenzo’s jaw flexed. He shook his head slowly.
“You are not a bargaining chip, Camila. You are my future,” he said quietly. Then, before she could stop him, he opened the car door and stepped out into the freezing wind.
Camila pressed her face against the tinted glass, watching in heart-stopping terror as Lorenzo walked out into the open center of the rail yard, his broad shoulders squared, his charcoal overcoat snapping in the gale.
Minutes stretched like hours.
Then, from atop a towering stack of shipping containers fifty yards away, a laser sight blinked red against Lorenzo’s chest.
Amplified speakers mounted on a nearby crane suddenly crackled to life, echoing District Attorney Vance’s smirking voice across the desolate yards.
“Well, well, well. The great Lorenzo Moretti. Walking right into the lion's den like a good little dog,” Vance’s voice sneered through the static. “Drop the portfolio, Moretti! Drop the port authority codes on the ground, or your little baker friend gets a bullet right between the eyes!”
From a side hatch of a rusted railcar, two of Vance’s thugs dragged a terrified, gagged Chloe out into the open, a pistol pressed firmly against her temple. Chloe’s eyes were wide with terror, silent tears streaming down her face.
Camila’s breath caught in her throat. She gripped the door handle.
She couldn't just sit here.
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She looked down at the floor of the car. Wedged between the console and the passenger seat was a heavy, discarded iron tire iron left behind by one of the guards.
With a surge of desperate, reckless adrenaline, Camila grabbed the iron, punched the electric lock button, pushed open the car door, and slipped out into the shadows of the containers, moving fast and silent toward the railcar where Chloe was being held.
