Chapter 6 - In the Shadow of the Iron Gates
The south docks of Chicago were a desolate wasteland of rusted shipping containers, decaying cranes, and neglected warehouses. The rain had left giant puddles reflecting the industrial sodium lights hanging from the high ceilings of Warehouse 14.
Inside, Derek Sterling paced back and forth across the concrete floor. He was a broad, heavy-set man in his late thirties, wearing an expensive leather jacket that couldn't hide his unrefined manners. He chewed on an unlit cigar, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Are you sure the clerk gave us the right address?" Derek snapped at one of his henchmen. "I've been in this miserable city for three days! I want that bitch found!"
"The clerk swore she used that name at a staffing agency on 4th Street," the henchman replied, nervously checking his firearm. "They placed nannies in high-end estates. We're crossing the client list right now."
"Find her," Derek growled. "When I get my hands on her, she's going to spend the next year chained to a radiator in Detroit. She thought she could hit me and run? I'm going to teach her—"
The heavy iron doors of the warehouse slammed shut with a deafening bang.
The lights in the ceiling flickered and died, plunging the warehouse into near total darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight filtering through the cracked skylights.
"What the hell?" Derek shouted, dropping his glass. "Draw your weapons!"
His eight men immediately pulled out handguns, forming a defensive circle around their boss. The sound of rain beating against the corrugated steel roof filled the silence.
Then came the footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Unhurried.
Out of the shadows walked Victor Blackwood, flanked by Marcus and six men in tactical gear, all carrying silenced submachine guns. Victor was holding a silver-plated cane, though he didn't lean on it; he carried it like a scepter.
"Derek Sterling," Victor’s voice resonated through the vast expanse of the warehouse, smooth and icy.
Derek aimed his pistol at Victor’s chest. "Who the hell are you? This is private business! Get out before I put a bullet in you!"
Victor stopped ten paces away. He looked at Derek with absolute contempt, as if viewing a rat that had strayed into his dining room.
"You are in Chicago," Victor said quietly. "Nothing in this city is private from me. And you are looking for Lillian Vance."
Derek’s eyes widened in surprise, then twisted into a cruel snarl. "So you know where my wife is! Hand her over! She’s my legal property!"
"She is a human being," Victor corrected softly. "And she is under my protection."
"Protection?" Derek laughed loudly, though his men looked nervous. "You don't know who you're dealing with, buddy! I own Detroit freight! I have fifty guys back home!"
"You had fifty guys back home," Victor stated calmly. He checked his wrist watch. "As of three o'clock this morning, your warehouses in Detroit were seized by federal marshals following an anonymous tip regarding your human trafficking operations. Your bank accounts are frozen. Your partners have abandoned you. You have nothing left."
Derek’s face flushed red with rage. "You're lying!"
"Search your phone," Victor invited calmly.
Derek reached for his phone with a shaking hand. He tapped the screen, his eyes growing wide as he saw dozens of missed calls, frantic text messages from his lieutenants, and notifications of frozen accounts.
"You ruined me?" Derek spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. "For a nanny?"
"For a woman you abused," Victor said, taking a step forward. His guards raised their weapons, their laser sights painting red dots across the chests of Derek’s men. "Drop your weapons."
The eight henchmen, realizing they were completely outmatched and that their boss was financially ruined, dropped their guns onto the concrete floor one by one, raising their hands in surrender.
"Useless cowards!" Derek screamed at his men. He raised his own gun toward Victor’s face. "If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me!"
Before Derek’s finger could pull the trigger, Victor moved with terrifying speed. He stepped inside the line of fire, his hand striking Derek’s wrist with forceful precision. The gun clattered to the floor.
In one continuous motion, Victor brought the silver top of his heavy cane around, shattering Derek’s kneecap.
Derek collapsed to the floor with a sickening scream of agony, clutching his shattered leg, writhing in the dirt.
May you like
Victor stood over him, looking down with cold, unforgiving eyes. He placed the heavy heel of his shoe onto Derek’s remaining good hand, pressing down slowly until the bones cracked beneath his weight.
"This," Victor whispered softly, "is for every time you laid a hand on Lillian."
