Chapter 5 - The Gathering StormInfiltrating the Marina ClubThe Marina Club was a sprawling, glass-fronted entertainment complex situated right on the edge of Lake Michigan, owned secretly by Connor Bell. Tonight, it was closed to the public for a private, high-stakes gathering of Chicago’s underworld elite. Sleek black sedans lined the private parking lot, and armed guards in tailored suits stood at every entrance.
From the darkened interior of our surveillance van parked across the street, Gabriel and I watched the entrance through high-powered binoculars.
“Daniel arrived ten minutes ago,” Gabriel reported, adjusting the focus ring. He was dressed in a pristine black tuxedo that hid his heavy tactical shoulder holster, looking every bit the ruthless mob boss ready to reclaim his throne. “He’s meeting on the VIP mezzanine overlooking the private dock.”
I checked the magazine of the compact Glock Gabriel had handed me earlier, slipping it into the holster concealed beneath my oversized wool coat. Despite the heavy layers, my swollen stomach was hard to hide, but tonight, nobody would be looking at my waistline—they’d be looking down the barrel of our guns.
“How do we get in without tripping their biometric scanners?” I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the revolving glass doors.
“We don't use the front entrance,” Gabriel said, flashing a dark, wicked grin. “We use the service elevator shaft connected to the underground loading docks. Daniel forgot that I designed this building’s security architecture myself five years ago. There’s a master override code that hasn’t been changed.”
We slipped out of the van into the freezing Chicago mist. The wind whipped off the lake, biting sharply at my cheeks, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins kept the cold at bay. Gabriel kept a protective arm around my waist, guiding me swiftly through the shadows toward the industrial loading bay behind the club.
Using the master override code on the keypad, the heavy steel security door slid open with a low, hydraulic hiss, welcoming us into the belly of the beast.
The interior of the Marina Club smelled of expensive scotch, cedarwood, and rising panic. As we ascended the concrete service stairs toward the VIP mezzanine, the muffled bass of electronic music thudded through the walls, punctuated by the occasional sound of glass shattering or raised voices.
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We reached the heavy oak service door that led directly onto the private balcony overlooking the main lounge. Gabriel raised two fingers, counting down silently: Three... Two... One...
He kicked the door open with an explosive crash, splintering the frame and sending it flying inward.
