Chapter 7 - Lincoln Park
The Lincoln Park safe house was not listed on any property register in the state of Illinois. It was a modest four-story brownstone built in the late 1920s, tucked away behind a thick canopy of oak trees on a quiet residential street near the lake.
To the neighbors, it was the unoccupied residence of an eccentric European investor. To Gabriel Kane, it was his ultimate fallback position—a reinforced bunker wrapped in brick and slate, equipped with independent power, bulletproof glass, and a private medical suite.
At 3:15 AM, Gabriel’s black SUV pulled into the alley behind the brownstone.
Gabriel stepped out of the vehicle, his face carved from stone. He had spent the last two hours hunting ghosts through the Hammond docks, only to find the warehouse engulfed in chemical foam, two of Cross's men unconscious on the floor, and a delivery truck missing from the bay.
He had thought she was dead. He had thought Eli was lost.
Then Mason’s phone had buzzed with a message from the Lincoln Park perimeter team: A commercial delivery vehicle just crashed through the alley gate.
Gabriel didn't wait for his guards. He sprinted through the rain toward the rear entrance of the brownstone, his heart pounding with a wild, terrifying fear he hadn't felt since the day his brother died.
He threw open the heavy oak door.
The air inside the house was warm and smelled of pine and disinfectant. Standing near the hallway counter was Dr. Evans, Gabriel’s personal physician, holding a bag of medical supplies.
"Where are they?" Gabriel’s voice was a low, desperate command.
"In the small parlor, Gabriel," the doctor said quietly, his eyes filled with a strange, respectful awe. "She wouldn't let me touch her. She wouldn't let anyone touch the boy."
Gabriel walked past the doctor, his heavy boots making no sound on the thick Persian rug.
He reached the threshold of the parlor.
The room was dimly lit by a single floor lamp. Outside the tall windows, the rain continued to hammer the glass like distant gunfire.
Claire Bennett was sitting on the green velvet sofa.
She looked as though she had survived a war. Blood had dried dark along the bottom of her torn beige coat. One of her shoes was missing, her bare foot bruised and swollen. Her left cheek was dark purple, her blouse was ripped at the shoulder, and her small hands were wrapped so tightly around the sleeping baby against her chest that even in her exhaustion, she looked prepared to fight an army.
May you like
Gabriel stopped dead in the doorway.
The most feared man in Chicago—a man who had ordered the destruction of empires without blinking—could not move a single step.
