Chapter 6 - The Airfield at Waukegan
The rain had turned into a thick, blinding sleet by 2:30 AM when the three black armored SUVs pulled up to the perimeter fence of the private Waukegan Regional Airport.
The airfield was quiet, surrounded by tall chain-link fencing and dark industrial hangars. Sitting on the tarmac near Hangar 4 was a sleek, twin-engine Gulfstream private jet, its interior lights glowing softly against the storm.
Two luxury sedans were parked near the open hangar doors. Standing beside them were six heavily armed men wearing dark raincoats—Lorenzo Moretti’s private security detail.
Dominic sat in the back of the lead SUV, watching the hangar through the tinted, rain-streaked window. He wore a dark wool overcoat over his suit, his hands clasped calmly in his lap. Beside him, Vincent was checking the magazine of his suppressed submachine gun.
"Moretti’s inside the hangar," Vincent reported, looking at a thermal imaging readout on his tablet. "He’s got eight men inside, four outside. They’re expecting Arthur’s Mercedes."
"Signal Marcone first," Dominic ordered.
Vincent tapped his phone. "Frank, report."
Frank Marcone’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and loud over the secure line. "The South Chicago docks are secured, boss. We caught six of Moretti’s guys trying to place GPS beacons on our grain barges. They’re tied up in Warehouse 3. The docks are back under Vale control."
"Good work, Frank," Dominic said. "Hold the perimeter."
Dominic looked at Vincent. "Let's go."
The three armored SUVs glided through the open airport gate, their heavy tires splashing through deep puddles of icy water. They pulled up in a smooth, tactical formation forty feet from Hangar 4, their headlights cutting through the sleet to illuminate the six guards standing outside.
Moretti’s men instantly reached under their raincoats, their posture stiffening into high alert.
The driver’s side door of Dominic’s SUV opened, and Vincent stepped out into the freezing rain, his submachine gun held low at his side.
"Tell Lorenzo that Dominic Vale is here for the meeting," Vincent called out across the tarmac.
One of Moretti’s guards blinked in confusion. "Dominic? Where's Arthur?"
"Arthur couldn't make it," Vincent replied coldly. "He had a medical emergency."
The side passenger door opened smoothly.
Dominic Vale stepped out into the storm.
He didn't use a cane. He didn't limp. He walked across the wet, slippery pavement with a long, powerful stride, his heavy coat catching the wind, his eyes fixed on the illuminated interior of Hangar 4.
The guards outside lowered their hands slightly, their faces filled with pure shock. They had all heard the rumors circulating through the Chicago underworld for the last three weeks: Dominic Vale was crippled, confined to a wheelchair or a heavy brace, unable to leave his estate without assistance.
Seeing him walking toward them in the middle of a freezing storm like a ghost returned from the dead paralyzed them with hesitation.
Dominic walked straight past the guards, stepping inside the high-ceilinged hangar.
Sitting at a portable folding table near the nose of the Gulfstream jet was Lorenzo Moretti. He was fifty-five, thick-set, with a dark mustache and a heavy leather coat. He was holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other.
When Dominic stepped into the light, Lorenzo froze. The glass of scotch stopped halfway to his lips.
"Dominic?" Lorenzo gasped, his voice raspy with disbelief.
Dominic walked right up to the table, stopping three feet away. He looked down at Lorenzo with an expression of absolute, terrifying calm.
"Lorenzo," Dominic said, his voice echoing in the vast metal space. "You're sitting in my city."
Lorenzo dropped his glass onto the table, the amber liquid spilling across a stack of forged property deeds. He reached instinctively toward his shoulder holster, but before his fingers could touch the leather, Vincent and four tactical operators stepped into the hangar, their weapons aimed directly at Lorenzo’s chest.
Moretti’s guards inside the hangar immediately raised their hands, backing away from their boss.
Lorenzo swallowed hard, his face pale under the fluorescent lights. "Dominic... what is this? Arthur told me—"
"Arthur lied to you, Lorenzo," Dominic interrupted softly. "Just like he lied to me."
Dominic reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the small silver hex screw that Ellie had found on the marble floor, and dropped it into Lorenzo’s spilled glass of scotch with a soft clink.
"You supplied the nerve poison, Lorenzo," Dominic said, leaning forward, resting both hands flat on the table. "You thought if you crippled me, you could buy Arthur for sixty million and take the Port of Chicago."
Lorenzo’s lips trembled. "Dominic... listen to me. It was Arthur’s idea! He came to me four months ago! He said you were getting weak, that you were turning legitimate and leaving the rest of us behind! I just supplied the logistics—"
"You touched my family’s business, Lorenzo," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register so dark that even the guards standing near the doors shivered. "And you paid Arthur to poison me in my own house."
Dominic stood up straight. He looked at Vincent.
"Seize the aircraft," Dominic commanded. "Seize every asset registered to the Moretti family in Cook County. And tell Lorenzo’s crew that if I see a single one of them north of Interstate 80 by sunrise, they won't make it to breakfast."
Lorenzo sank into his chair, his hands shaking violently as he looked up at the man he had tried to destroy. "Dominic... please..."
"You're alive tonight, Lorenzo, because I don't want blood on my shoes when I go home to my estate," Dominic said flatly. "Get out of my city."
May you like
Dominic turned his back on the mob boss and walked out of the hangar into the sleet.
His stride was long, smooth, and painless.
