Chapter 5 - The Glass and the Smoke
The white fog of frozen CO2 filled the auxiliary room in less than two seconds, dropping the temperature to near zero and completely obscuring all visibility.
Frank Vance fired two wild shots into the mist—THWIP! THWIP!—the suppressed rounds ricocheting harmlessly off the steel water pipes with sharp, sparks-filled clangs.
Matteo didn't hesitate. In the blinding white cloud, he lunged forward, catching Frank’s gun wrist with his left hand, twisting the weapon sideways with brutal, mechanical force.
Frank gasped as his wrist snapped with a loud CRACK. The suppressed pistol fell to the concrete floor.
Matteo drove his right elbow straight into Frank's jaw, sending the older man crashing backward into the steel water filtration manifold. Frank hit the floor, unconscious, his face covered in white frost from the expanding gas.
"Elena!" Matteo shouted over the roaring alarm, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the room into the corridor.
They stumbled into the hallway, coughing violently as the freezing gas seeped through the doorway behind them. Matteo slammed the heavy steel utility door shut, locking it from the outside using his master pass.
Elena leaned against the corridor wall, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with shock. "Frank... Frank was working for him..."
"Mercer owns everyone he can buy," Matteo said, checking his watch. The countdown timer on his phone read: 04:12... 04:11...
"We have four minutes to reach Pier 42," Elena whispered, horror washing over her. "It's impossible! Pier 42 is six miles south! Even with no traffic, it takes fifteen minutes!"
"We aren't driving," Matteo said.
He grabbed her hand, leading her down the corridor toward the heavy steel doors at the far end marked: ROOF ACCESS — HELIPAD.
They burst through the double doors into the freezing rain on the skyscraper's roof.
Sitting in the center of the illuminated helipad was Matteo's private Eurocopter EC135, its twin turbine engines idling in standby mode, the rotor blades turning slowly in the rain-heavy air.
Standing beside the pilot’s door was Thomas, a former military pilot who had served in Matteo’s private transport unit for six years.
"Mr. Valente!" Thomas yelled over the whine of the turbines, opening the rear cabin door. "Marcus called up from the desk! Said you needed an immediate emergency departure!"
"Pier 42, Thomas!" Matteo shouted, lifting Elena into the leather interior of the helicopter and climbing in beside her. "Drop us on the roof of the cold-storage warehouse! Five hundred feet!"
"Sir, the weather is below minimums—"
"Fly the chopper, Thomas!" Matteo ordered, slamming the heavy cabin door shut.
The turbines roared to life with a high-pitched scream. The Eurocopter lifted off the rooftop pad, pitching forward into the black, rain-swept sky above Chicago, its red navigation lights flashing against the low clouds as it accelerated south toward the lakefront at one hundred and sixty knots.
Inside the cabin, Matteo pulled a small, militarized laptop from the cabinet beneath the seat and plugged the titanium flash drive into the USB port.
"Let's see what Daniel Mercer was willing to kill for," Matteo muttered.
The screen lit up instantly, bypassing the drive’s encryption using a hardware bypass tool Matteo’s team had installed on the flight deck.
A series of high-resolution PDF documents appeared on the screen, accompanied by audio files, patient charts, and bank transaction receipts.
Elena leaned close, her eyes scanning the text as the helicopter swayed through the turbulence.
"Look at the dates," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It... it didn't start eighteen months ago."
Matteo scrolled through the files.
The records dated back seven years. Hundreds of patient entries, thousands of medical procedures, and wire transfers totaling over eighty million dollars routed through shell companies in Zurich, Grand Cayman, and Panama.
And at the top of every single master authorization document sat three signatures:
Dr. Daniel Mercer.
Richard Vance.
And a third signature that made Matteo’s blood run cold.
It was the elegant, unmistakable script of Senator Robert Valente—Matteo’s uncle, the senior United States Senator from Illinois and the honorary chairman of the Valente Children’s Foundation.
Matteo stared at his uncle’s name on the screen, his grey eyes turning into slabs of solid granite.
"My uncle," Matteo whispered, the full scope of the treason finally settling into his mind. "He didn't just know about Room 614. He funded it."
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Elena looked at him, her face filled with deep, unspoken sorrow. "Matteo... I'm so sorry..."
"Don't be," Matteo said, closing the laptop and tucking the titanium drive into his inner coat pocket. He looked out the rain-streaked window as the dark silhouette of Pier 42 appeared beneath the helicopter's nose. "Now I don't have to spare any of them."
