Chapter 6 - The Siege of Cicero
The industrial district of Cicero was silent, dark, and drenched in heavy rain.
An old meatpacking plant sat at the end of a dead-end street—a fortress of rusty corrugated steel, concrete walls, and high chain-link fences topped with razor wire.
Inside, thirty armed men moved frantically, stacking crates against doors, checking their automatic rifles, and staring out the dirt-caked windows into the stormy night.
Dominic Valetti stood in the middle of the floor, his face bruised and swollen from our encounter earlier that afternoon. A thick bandage was wrapped around his throat, but his eyes were wide with hysterical rage.
"Check the perimeter!" Dominic screamed at his men. "Where are the cops? Why aren't the judges answering their phones?"
"Boss!" a young lieutenant yelled from the upper catwalk, looking at his laptop screen. "The news... Assistant DA Vance just held an emergency press conference! Judge Miller, Police Chief Harrison, and Senator Cole were all just arrested by federal agents for racketeering!"
Dominic’s face turned gray. "What?"
"The ledger!" the lieutenant panicked. "Reed gave them Clara's ledger! We have no coverage! The whole system is burned!"
Before Dominic could answer, the heavy steel roll-up doors at the front of the plant exploded inward with a deafening, metallic roar.
A heavy tactical breaching vehicle smashed straight through the steel doors, sending debris and splintered wood flying across the concrete floor.
Searchlights mounted on the top of three black Escalades cut through the darkness, blinding the men inside with searing white light.
"REED IS HERE!" someone shrieked.
Gunfire instantly erupted.
The sound inside the metal warehouse was deafening—a continuous, roaring storm of automatic rifle fire, glass shattering, and men screaming.
My men poured through the breached entrance with military precision, moving behind heavy ballistic shields, suppressing Dominic’s crew with overwhelming firepower.
I walked into the warehouse behind my lead tactical team.
I didn't run. I didn't hide behind a shield. I walked down the center aisle of the meatpacking plant, my Colt .45 in my right hand, firing with calm, devastating accuracy whenever a target presented itself.
A gunman leaned over the upper catwalk to take aim at me. I raised my pistol and fired once. The man tumbled over the railing, crashing onto the concrete floor twenty feet below.
Another shooter rushed out from behind a meat locker. Frankie stepped in front of me, taking the man down with three rapid shots to the chest.
Within seven minutes, the gunfire began to die down.
The floor was littered with spent shell casings, shattered glass, and fallen mercenaries. The remaining Valetti loyalists dropped their weapons, throwing their hands into the air, weeping and begging for mercy as my men pinned them to the ground.
In the center of the room, standing near a heavy industrial grinding machine, was Dominic.
His rifle was empty, its slide locked back. He dropped the useless weapon onto the wet concrete, his hands shaking violently as he looked at me walking toward him through the settling gunsmoke.
"Jonathan..." Dominic stammered, backing up until his spine hit the steel wall. "Wait... wait! We can make a deal! The money... you can have the offshore accounts! All forty million!"
I stopped five feet away from him.
The rain beat a steady, metallic rhythm against the tin roof high above us.
"I don't want your money, Dominic," I said softly, raising my weapon.
"She was just a girl!" Dominic shrieked, tears finally cutting through the soot on his face. "I didn't hurt her! I never touched the kid!"
"You made her mother run until her heart gave out," I said, my voice completely stripped of humanity. "You made my daughter eat scraps and live in fear."
"Please, Reed! Mercy!"
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"Mercy is for human beings," I said.
A single shot echoed through the warehouse.
