Chapter 6 - THE TROJAN HORSEThe rain started at noon, turning the Chicago streets into black, reflective mirrors of neon and taillights.
The black Escalade idled in the alley behind the 14th District precinct house—a brutalist concrete bunker built in the 1970s that smelled permanently of floor wax, stale coffee, and suppressed panic.
Inside the back seat, Harper clutched the leather ledger to her chest like a shield. Dante sat beside her, checking the magazine of a matte-black compact pistol with calm, rhythmic clicks. In the front seat, Frankie gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles scarred and thick as walnuts.
And in the very back, occupying the entire rear cargo area with the seats folded down, was Nero.
"The plan is simple," Dante said, his voice cutting through the hum of the windshield wipers. "We don't storm the building. We let them think they've won."
Harper swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "And if Tyrell isn't inside?"
"Tyrell lives in that building," Dante replied, sliding the magazine home with a sharp clack. "He’s the precinct's golden boy, the liaison between the municipal brass and the federal task force. When his superiors realized the ledger was missing from the safe house, they didn't call the FBI. They called him. And right now, he's sitting in his third-floor office, sweating through his custom shirt, wondering why his cleanup crew hasn't texted him back."
Dante tapped the glass partition. Frankie killed the lights.
"Remember," Dante said, looking directly into Harper’s eyes. "When we walk through those doors, you aren't a victim anymore. You’re the storm."
They moved with terrifying efficiency. Frankie took the service entrance, disabling the electronic keypad with a handheld frequency scrambler before security even realized the circuit had dropped. Dante led Harper down the long, fluorescent-lit corridors of the second floor, past empty cubicles and humming copy machines.
The precinct was eerily quiet—too quiet. The Saturday shift was skeleton-crew skeletonized, exactly as Dante had calculated.
They stopped outside a frosted glass door marked: DETECTIVE T. VANCE — HOMICIDE / SPECIAL ASSIGNMENTS.
From inside came the muffled, angry sound of someone slamming a fist against a wooden desk, followed by a voice that made Harper’s blood run cold.
"I don't give a damn what the marshals say!" Tyrell’s voice barked through the door. "Find her! If that bitch walks into a federal courthouse with that book, we’re all doing twenty years in a federal penitentiary!"
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Dante didn't knock. He raised his right boot and kicked the center of the frosted glass panel with the force of a battering ram.
The door didn't just open; it shattered into a thousand glittering shards that rained across the linoleum floor like frozen diamonds.
