638 The Lake Shore Drive Siege and the Midnight Ledger: A Betrayed Syndicate, a Hidden Family, and the Night the King of Chicago Took Back His Empire

The lead operative’s ballistic helmet took the round square in the visor, spinning him backward into the shattered remains of the elevator shaft with a lifeless thud.

The remaining three mercenaries didn't panic. They immediately pivoted toward my position, spitting a devastating wall of suppressed lead that chewed the marble pillar to white powder right beside my head.

I dropped flat to the floor, rolling behind the wet bar in the corner of the living room as splinters of glass and wood rained down over me.

“Flank left! Flush him out!” one of the mercenaries shouted over the din.

Heavy boots crunched rapidly across the broken glass. I waited, breathing slowly, counting the seconds in my head the way I used to when running contraband through the midnight alleys of the Chicago River.

One. Two. Three.

The first mercenary rounded the corner of the wet bar, his rifle leading the way.

I didn't shoot for the chest. I swept my foot out in a violent arc, kicking his ankles hard against the baseboard. He lost his footing instantly, tumbling over the counter. Before he could recover, I brought the heavy butt of my pistol down across his jaw with bone-crushing force, sending him unconscious to the floor.

I grabbed his assault rifle—a suppressed M4 carbine with an under-barrel tactical light—and rolled back out into the open foyer.

The remaining two mercenaries were advancing cautiously down the corridor toward the children’s wing.

“Drop your weapons!” I roared, the sound echoing off the high glass ceilings with terrifying authority.

They spun around, but they were too late.

I squeezed the trigger of the M4, laying down a sustained, calculated burst of fire that chewed up the floorboards around their boots and shattered their weapons sling attachments, forcing both men to drop their rifles or lose their hands.

As their weapons clattered against the marble, both operatives raised their hands slowly, realizing they had walked into a slaughterhouse.

Behind them, crawling frantically through the blood and dust toward the broken elevator shaft, was Arthur Velez. He had managed to drag himself twenty feet toward the open drop, desperate to escape.

“Help me...” Arthur wheezed, his fingers reaching out toward the dark abyss of the shaft. “Please... Roman...”