Chapter 5 - Fire at Lake Calumet
The warehouse at Lake Calumet was a rotting hulk of corrugated steel and broken windows, looming over the black, icy water of the shipping channel.
Our three armored SUVs cut their headlights a half-mile away, rolling silently through the marshland before screeching to a halt against the loading dock.
“In,” I ordered, racking the slide of my custom rifle.
Twelve of my best enforcers poured out of the vehicles like ghosts, moving with terrifying synchronization. We didn't bother with subtlety. Vance planted a breaching charge against the rusted side door, and with a thunderous boom, the steel buckled inward.
Gunfire erupted instantly from inside the warehouse.
“Clear the floor!” I shouted, returning fire as muzzle flashes lit up the cavernous interior.
Bullets punched through wooden crates and ricocheted off concrete pillars, but my men were a wall of iron. Within three minutes, the gunfire died down to the groans of wounded West Side enforcers scattered across the dirty floor.
At the center of the warehouse, tied to a chair beneath a swinging halogen work light, was a bruised, battered man wearing a tailored suit—one of our senior accountants who had gone missing two days ago.
And standing beside him, holding a silver-plated pistol, was Viktor Moretti.
Viktor was a tall, sharp-featured man with slicked-back dark hair and an arrogant sneer that twisted his face. He didn't drop his weapon; instead, he pressed the barrel firmly against the accountant's temple.
“Hold your fire, Julian!” Viktor shouted, his voice echoing off the metal walls. “One step closer, and your accountant loses his brains on the concrete.”
I stopped twenty feet away, my rifle leveled steadily at his chest.
“You picked the wrong family to steal from, Viktor,” I said, my voice dead and cold.
“Did I?” Viktor laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Your father kept that little girl hidden because he knew she was a ticking time bomb! The moment rival syndicates find out Vincent Calder left his primary estate and billions in offshore accounts to an illegitimate five-year-old, a full-scale war is going to tear Chicago apart. I’m just accelerating the inevitable.”
“You won't live to see the war,” I replied.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't negotiate.
While Viktor was busy gloating, my finger squeezed the trigger. The bullet took him clean through the right shoulder, spinning him around and knocking the pistol from his hand.
Before he could scream, Vance and two enforcers were on him, slamming him face-first into the concrete and securing his wrists in heavy steel zip-ties.
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I walked slowly over to the terrified accountant, cutting his bindings with my hunting knife, before stopping right in front of Viktor as he bled onto the floor.
“Tell Detroit,” I whispered, leaning down so my face was inches from his, “that the Calder family doesn't share. And if anyone so much as looks in the direction of Harbor House again, I won't just take their territory—I’ll wipe their name off the map.”
