Chapter 15 - The Fall of the False Shepherd
"One."
The rain outside picked up, drumming against the sheet-metal siding of the grain elevator like a thousand small stones.
"Two."
I braced my boots against the interior rung of the maintenance ladder, muscles tensed, my weapon leveled upward.
"Three."
Arthur kicked the inspection grate clear out of its concrete anchors with a thunderous crash that reverberated through the hollow cavern like a bomb blast.
Before the metal hit the concrete floor, Arthur’s suppressed pistol coughed twice in rapid succession.
The two guards flanking Moretti dropped instantly, their shotguns clattering uselessly against the timber platform as scarlet spray blossomed against the white limestone walls.
Panic erupted among the union delegates, chairs screeching against concrete, men screaming and diving for cover beneath the heavy conveyor belts.
"Ambush!" someone shrieked from the catwalks.
I vaulted through the opening, rolling onto the concrete floor and coming up into a low crouch as automatic fire tore through the air where I had just landed, chipping concrete into flying shards that cut my cheek.
Franco Rossi turned, his false priest's collar askew, his eyes bulging with animal terror as he scrambled toward the rear exit door.
I sprinted through the swirling clouds of dust and ancient grain dust, ignoring the gunfire cracking above my head as Arthur systematically picked off Moretti’s shooters on the upper scaffolding.
"Franco!" I screamed across the roar of the firefight.
The false priest looked back, reaching beneath his cassock for a nickel-plated snub-nosed revolver.
He was too slow.
I fired three rounds into his right knee.
The priest went down with a wet, shattering shriek, his gun skittering across the floor into a drainage ditch.
I closed the distance in three long strides, kicking him over onto his back and planting the steel heel of my tactical boot directly onto his shattered patella.
Rossi wailed, clawing at my boot, blood pooling beneath his black wool trousers.
"Norah... Norah Hayes, for the love of God, I blessed your mother's casket!" he choked out, spit and bile spraying from his lips.
"You stole the grocery money from her kitchen while she died of pain we couldn't afford medicine for," I said, leveling the barrel of my gun directly between his watering, bloodshot eyes. "Did God tell you to plant dynamite beneath your own flock, Father?"
"It wasn't me! It was Moretti! He’s got the whole East Coast behind him! If you kill him, they’ll turn Chicago into a graveyard!"
Across the platform, a sudden, violent scuffle ended with the sickening crunch of bone.
I flicked my eyes up for a fraction of a second.
Arthur stood on the platform, his left arm wrapped around Salvatore Moretti’s neck in a vice-like sleeper hold, his right hand twisting Moretti’s wrist until the stag-handled knife dropped from limp fingers.
In Arthur’s hand was a small black plastic transmitter with a glowing red LED light.
The detonator.
Arthur tossed the detonator to Gable, who had just breached the northern delivery door with a dozen federal agents wearing black tactical vests.
Moretti was bleeding from his nose, his expensive topcoat shredded, but his cold, reptilian sneer remained intact.
"You're too late, Arthur," Moretti spat, blood dripping from his chin onto his silk tie. "The Commission already authorized the liquidation of the Vance line. If I don't check in by sunrise, twenty more like me take the red-eye out of Newark."
Arthur leaned down, whispering something into Moretti’s ear that made the older gangster’s sneer wither into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror.
Then Arthur slammed Moretti’s head into the heavy cast-iron stanchion of the platform railing, knocking him out cold.
Arthur stepped over the unconscious body, descending the metal stairs with the steady, measured gait of an emperor reviewing a conquered province.
He stopped beside me, looking down at Franco Rossi who was weeping openly, clutching his mangled leg.
"What do we do with the shepherd, Norah?" Arthur asked, leaving the judgment entirely in my hands before fifty witnessing union delegates and a squad of federal agents.
I lowered my pistol, looking at the sniveling man who had masqueraded as a man of faith while feeding on the corpses of Bridgeport’s poor.
"Death is too quick for him," I said, my voice echoing off the concrete silos with absolute authority. "Take his collar. Put him in Cook County General under suicide watch, and when his leg heals, put him in the general population at Stateville Penitentiary. Let the men he lied to for thirty years be his congregation."
Gable stepped forward, nodding to two agents who dragged Rossi away, his screams fading down the dark loading tunnel.
Arthur pulled a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped the smear of blood and grain dust from my cheek.
"You fought like a queen," he murmured.
"I fought like a girl from the South Side who finally found something worth defending," I answered, leaning into his touch despite the chaos around us.
"The wedding is in three days," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the cavernous room where federal agents were securing the demolition charges. "Are you still willing to take this name?"
May you like
"More than ever," I said, sliding my pistol back into its holster. "Because when we finish with this city, Arthur, no one will ever dare bring blood to our table again."
***
