Chapter 3 - The Price of BetrayalThe metallic click of four Glock pistols sliding the chambers home sounded deafening in the cramped office.
Daniel didn't panic. His heart rate spiked, but years of surviving street wars had hardwired his instincts to move faster than his fear. Using his crutches for leverage, he swung his body violently to the side, throwing himself behind a heavy steel filing cabinet just as a volley of bullets tore through the drywall where he had stood a second before.
Wood splinters and drywall dust filled the air.
"Flush him out!" Marcus yelled, waving his hand impatiently at his men. "He can't run. Look at him—he’s barely standing on those scraps of metal!"
Vincent stood safely behind Marcus’s guard, his face hardened into a mask of bitter indifference. "Don't underestimate him, Marcus. Even broken, he’s dangerous."
Inside his makeshift cover, Daniel gritted his teeth. The sudden exertion sent white-hot agony shooting up his spine, radiating outward through his torso. He reached into his coat and pulled out a suppressed compact pistol. It was small, but at this range, it didn't need to be fancy.
Bang. Bang.
Two muffled shots pierced the gloom.
The first bullet caught the lead gunman directly in the throat; the man dropped instantly, clutching his windpipe as he collapsed onto the shattered coffee mug. The second round grazed Marcus’s shoulder, tearing through his expensive charcoal suit jacket and drawing a sharp hiss of pain from the Boston racketeer.
"Get him! Kill him!" Marcus screamed, scrambling backward out of the doorway.
Daniel used the chaos to drag himself toward the office’s side window. With a brutal grunt, he smashed the glass with the rubber tip of his crutch, pulled himself up using the window frame, and threw his body outward into the rainy night, tumbling down onto a pile of discarded cargo pallets.
Pain exploded across his ribs and right knee, but adrenaline kept him moving. He crawled beneath the chassis of a parked semi-truck just as a stream of automatic gunfire chewed up the pallets behind him.
"Search the yard! He couldn't have gone far!" Vincent’s voice echoed across the concrete docks.
Lying in the freezing mud, soaked by the relentless Chicago rain, Daniel pulled out his phone. His fingers were stiff, smeared with a mixture of mud and his own sweat. He dialed a single speed-dial number.
It picked up on the first ring.
"Talk to me," Amara’s voice came through the earpiece, steady and razor-sharp.
"The yard is compromised," Daniel panted, his chest heaving. "Vincent flipped. Marcus Vale is here with him. They know about the shipments."
There was a brief pause on the line. Then, the sound of keyboard clicking echoed through the phone.
"I already see their vehicle trackers on the perimeter cameras," Amara said calmly. "Daniel, listen to me. They think you're trapped. But they forgot one thing."
"What's that?"
"You built this empire on logistics. And I control the software that runs every gate, crane, and security lock in this port."
A heavy, metallic thud reverberated across the shipping yard, followed by the screech of automated hydraulic locks slamming shut.
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All across the complex, massive steel perimeter gates slammed into place, sealing the exits. The high-intensity floodlights flickered once, twice, and then plunged the entire yard into pitch blackness.
"Lockdown initiated," Amara’s voice whispered in his ear. "Now, go hunt your traitors."
