Six more steps. That was all I needed to reach the far wall of the Grand Dining Hall. Six measured, impossible

The black Suburban moved through the drizzling Chicago morning with sleek, quiet power.

Frank, a gray-haired veteran with hands like cinderblocks and eyes that never stopped scanning the rearview mirrors, drove with icy precision. Sitting in the plush leather backseat, I clutched a small canvas bag containing my identification, my mother’s medical records, and a warm change of clothes Mrs. Carter had packed for me.

My phone vibrated in my lap.

It was a text from an unknown, heavily encrypted number:

*Plane is on the apron. Medical team has your mother settled in the cabin. ETA to Midway: twelve minutes. Keep your head down.*

It was Luca.

A lump rose in my throat. This man, who commanded an army of killers and moved hundreds of millions of dollars with a single signature, was personally tracking my route through the city while preparing to execute a counter-ambush against his deadliest rivals.

Suddenly, Frank’s radio crackled with static, followed by a voice that made the driver’s posture instantly stiffen.

"All units, this is Point Two. We have a tail. Silver Audi sedan and two blacked-out Escalades coming out of the West Loop, shadowing the transport route."

Frank looked in the mirror, his jaw clenching. "Daniel, we've got company on the Stevenson Expressway approach."

"Break protocol," Daniel's voice barked through the encrypted speaker. "Marco must have posted spotters outside the estate gates. He’s trying to cut off the boss’s private assets before the tunnel hit."

Before Frank could respond, the sickening sound of metal grinding against metal violently shook our vehicle.

A heavy, blacked-out Escalade slammed into our right rear quarter-panel, sending the Suburban skidding sideways across the slick asphalt of the highway ramp.

I screamed, bracing my arms against the front seats as the seatbelt locked violently against my chest, sending a vicious jolt of agony straight into my healing lumbar muscles.

Frank wrestled with the wheel, his boots stomping the anti-lock brakes, bringing the heavy armored vehicle out of the spin with terrifying skill. "Hold on, Claire!"

Through the rain-streaked rear window, I saw the second Escalade accelerating hard, aiming straight for our rear bumper.

They weren't trying to follow us. They were trying to flip us off the elevated ramp.

"They know she’s in the car," Frank growled, reaching under his coat and pulling a heavy black semi-automatic pistol from a shoulder holster. "Marco doesn't want any loose ends who can testify to the Commission."

*Bang!*

A high-caliber round shattered the outer layer of our rear windshield, spiderwebbing the reinforced ballistic glass into a sheet of opaque white crystal.

Frank floored the accelerator, the supercharged V8 engine roaring to life with a deafening growl as we surged down the off-ramp toward the industrial rail yards of Cicero. Behind us, the two pursuit vehicles stayed glued to our bumper, their high beams flashing aggressively through the grey downpour.

"Daniel!" Frank shouted into his hands-free mic. "We’re cut off from the airport route! Taking evasive maneuvers through Yard Four!"

"Hold out for three minutes, Frank," Daniel's voice came through, chillingly calm. "Support is already airborne."

We blasted through the rusted chain-link gates of an abandoned rail transfer depot, gravel and mud spraying violently against the wheel wells. Frank yanked the handbrake, sending the Suburban sliding in a wide, controlled arc behind a row of rusted shipping containers, killing the headlights instantly.

The two pursuing Escalades roared into the yard seconds later, tires screeching on the wet concrete, their spotlights sweeping across the derelict trains like predatory eyes.

"Claire," Frank whispered, turning around and pressing a small silver key into my palm. "Stay low. If the door opens and it isn't me, you hit this red button under the armrest. It locks the deadbolts from the inside. Understand?"

"Frank, don't go out there," I pleaded, terror choking my voice.

"I take orders from Luca Moretti," Frank said with a faint, fierce smile. "And the boss said you make that flight."

He kicked open the driver’s side door, rolling into the cover of the shipping containers with terrifying speed, his weapon barking three deafening, rhythmic shots into the darkness.

Gunfire erupted across the yard—sharp, cracking bursts that echoed off the corrugated metal walls of the train cars.

I crouched on the floor of the backseat, pressing my face into the carpet, my hands over my ears, praying like I had never prayed in my life. Every burst of automatic fire felt like a hammer striking my chest.

Then, above the chaotic roar of the firefight, came a different sound.

A deep, rhythmic, thumping vibration that shook the very air inside the car.

*Chop-chop-chop-chop.*

A massive black tactical helicopter dropped out of the low storm clouds directly above the rail yard, its downwash whipping the standing water into a violent hurricane of spray. A blinding spotlight ignited from the nose of the aircraft, pinning both Castiglione Escalades in a circle of pure, artificial daylight.

Through the shattered rear glass, I saw men in black tactical gear rappelling down fast-ropes from the open bay doors of the chopper.

The gunfire from the ground stopped almost immediately, replaced by the precise, overwhelming violence of a specialized assault team. Within sixty seconds, the rail yard went dead silent.

The door of my Suburban was wrenched open.

I gasped, recoiling against the opposite seat, the silver key clutched in my fist like a weapon.