Chapter 4 - The Harbor Trap
The wind howling off Lake Michigan carried the sharp, metallic scent of cold water and diesel exhaust. The old Burnham Harbor boathouse sat at the end of a rotting wooden pier, its corrugated tin roof rattling violently against the midnight gale. The surrounding slips were empty, stripped of luxury yachts for the winter season, leaving the area pitch dark except for a single flickering security light above the rusted double doors.
My armored SUV stopped fifty yards down the pier. I killed the headlights and sat in the silence for ten seconds, listening to the rhythmic pounding of the waves against the wooden pilings.
Marco sat in the passenger seat, his face shadowed, checking the magazine of his submachine gun. "We have three snipers positioned on the container cranes to the north, and a two-man sweep team moving along the breakwall," he reported quietly. "If Sterling thinks he’s walking out of here with the kids and the drive, he’s out of his mind."
"He's not planning on walking out," I said, opening the door and stepping out into the freezing wind. "Sterling is a coward who pays other people to take risks. He’ll have local muscle handling the exchange."
"What about the drive?" Marco asked, holding up a small, encrypted thumb drive—the one Marcus had pulled from the office safe earlier that evening.
"Give it to me," I said.
I tucked the drive into my interior jacket pocket, adjusted my heavy wool coat, and began walking alone down the slick wooden pier toward the boathouse. The darkness swallowed my footsteps, the boards groaning under my boots like wounded animals.
When I reached the heavy iron latch of the boathouse door, I didn't knock. I kicked it inward with a deafening crash.
The interior was vast, dim, and smelled of rotting wood and old motor oil. In the center of the room, sitting on an overturned wooden crate under a halogen work light, was Lily. Her small coat was buttoned up to her chin, and her arms were wrapped tightly around Owen, who was burying his face in her shoulder. They weren't crying. They looked up at me with those same wide, silent eyes.
And standing behind them, holding a heavy-caliber pistol pointed casually toward Lily's head, was a scarred man I recognized from Chicago’s underworld—Viktor Vance’s former muscle, a pitiless enforcer named Radek.
"Drop your coat, Steel," Radek rasped, his voice echoing off the corrugated tin walls. "And slide the drive across the concrete."
I stopped ten feet away, my hands raised slowly to shoulder height, keeping my eyes locked on Radek’s trigger finger.
"You're working for a lawyer, Radek?" I said, letting a cold, mocking edge creep into my voice. "Since when did corporate hitmen start wearing Italian suits?"
"Sterling pays better than the syndicate ever did," Radek grinned, his yellowed teeth catching the glare of the halogen light. "Now drop the drive. Don't make me explain what happens to the girl if you blink."
I slowly unzipped my coat, reached into my interior pocket, and pulled out the small black drive. I could feel the tension in the room stretching like a dry violin string. One wrong move, one twitch of Radek’s finger, and the children would pay the price for a corporate conspiracy they didn't even know existed.
"Here it is," I said, holding it out between my thumb and forefinger. "Let the kids go first, Radek. Then we'll talk about the data."
Radek laughed, a dry, grating sound. "You're in no position to negotiate, Ryker. Drop it on the floor and kick it over. Then walk backward out the door."
I tightened my grip on the drive, my eyes flicking past Radek to the high, grimy windows near the roofline.
May you like
Through the glass, I saw the faint, steady red dot of Marco’s sniper rifle locking directly onto Radek’s forehead.
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