Chapter 7 - The Silver Sedan
The engine of the old silver sedan coughed and wheezed as Marin navigated the maze of narrow side streets on Chicago’s near west side. Her hands were still shaking so violently on the steering wheel that she had to keep glancing down to make sure she wasn't veering into oncoming traffic. The dashboard clock glowed red: 7:15 PM.
Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had checked her rearview mirror three times in the last mile. No black sedans. No headlights riding too close to her bumper. Just the wet, glistening pavement reflecting the neon signs of corner bodegas and auto-repair shops.
She turned down an alley behind a brick apartment complex and parked in her usual unassigned slot near the back entrance. She didn't turn off the engine immediately. She sat there in the dim light of the dashboard, her foot hovering over the brake, staring ahead at the rusted fire escape of her building.
In her canvas tote bag, resting right beside her worn-out wallet and her keys, was a small, spiral-bound notebook with a grease-stained cardboard cover. Bernadette’s handwriting filled the pages—columns of names, dates, exact dollar amounts seized, and the chilling initials C.W. scrawled beside every major transaction.
Marin knew what that notebook meant. It was a death sentence for whoever held it if the wrong people found out. But it was also the only piece of leverage keeping her alive, the only proof that Bernadette hadn't died for nothing.
She grabbed her bag, shoved open the car door, and stepped out into the damp autumn chill.
As her sneaker hit the asphalt, a sound echoed from the mouth of the alley—the unmistakable crunch of heavy boots on gravel.
Marin froze. She slammed her car door shut, locked it with a frantic click of the fob, and darted toward the side door of the apartment building.
"Hey! Girl!"
A harsh, deep voice cut through the damp air.
Marin didn't look back. She scrambled for her apartment keys, her fingers fumbling blindly through the ring as she jammed the brass key into the heavy iron lock. The latch caught with a stiff click, and she threw herself inside, slamming the steel door shut and throwing the deadbolt just as a heavy shoulder slammed against the exterior wood.
Bang! Bang!
"Open the door, kid! We just want to talk!" a voice shouted from the hallway.
Marin backed away into her small, dimly lit kitchen, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her mother was safe across town at Saint Agnes Care Center, but Marin was right here, trapped in a four-hundred-square-foot box with only one exit.
She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers, her screen glowing in the dark. She didn't call 901—she knew from growing up in the neighborhood that the police on the west side moved too slowly when men in expensive suits were involved. Instead, she opened her contacts, scrolling down to the number Bernadette had made her memorize on a slip of paper just in case.
Santoro Tower Security.
Before her thumb could hit the call button, the glass window beside her kitchen sink shattered inward with a sharp explosion of sound. A gloved hand reached through the jagged frame, flicking the window latch open.
May you like
Marin screamed, grabbing a heavy cast-iron skillet from the counter just as a man’s face appeared in the window frame.
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