Chapter 2: The Neon Chase
Marcus stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the churning black water of the Chicago River. The city below was a sprawling grid of glowing amber streetlights and rain-slicked asphalt.
His private phone buzzed violently in his pocket. It was Thomas.
“Marc, we have a massive problem with the union reps at the docks,” Thomas’s voice crackled through the speaker. “They’re asking for another ten percent cut.”
“Pay them,” Marcus said smoothly, his eyes fixed intensely on the dark street below. “Or kill them. I don’t care. Handle it, Thomas.”
“I’m busy tonight,” Marcus added, his eyes scanning the sidewalk.
“Busy? You have the sit-down dinner with the Vance family envoys at ten o’clock!”
“Cancel it,” Marcus ordered, hanging up the phone without waiting for a reply.
He moved quickly, grabbing his heavy charcoal overcoat and a nondescript black baseball cap he exclusively used for low-profile movements. He wasn’t taking his armored SUV, and he certainly wasn’t taking his security detail.
If Sarah Jenkins was a planted asset—a spy for the rival Vance family or the feds—she would spot a professional tail instantly.
He checked the heavy Sig Sauer P226 holstered snugly under his jacket arm. He ensured a round was chambered, slapped the magazine back in, and slipped out through the private service elevator.
Down on the street level, the Chicago wind was brutally biting. Marcus pulled his collar up against the freezing rain, his eyes scanning the crowds.
He spotted her almost immediately.
She was walking briskly toward the L train station on State Street, her head tucked firmly down against the howling wind. She wore a shapeless, ugly gray coat that looked at least three sizes too big for her small frame.
Marcus followed, keeping a strict half-block distance. He expertly blended into the thick crowd of late-night commuters and shivering tourists.
She moved with a distinct, rigid purpose that entirely contradicted her sluggish, meek demeanor back in the penthouse. She didn’t meander or window-shop.
She cut street corners sharply. She checked reflections in dark shop windows using subtle, calculated head tilts that a normal civilian would never notice.
But Marcus noticed. It was professional tradecraft. She was aggressively checking for a tail.
A cold, electric thrill ran straight down Marcus’s spine. You’re not sweet little Sarah from Ohio, are you?
She reached the train station but didn’t walk up the concrete stairs to the platform. Instead, she ducked quickly into a bright, 24-hour pharmacy right next door.
Marcus paused outside in the freezing rain, pretending to read a soggy menu taped outside a closed bistro. He watched her through the pharmacy’s front glass.
She walked straight to the back aisle, grabbed a cheap bottle of water, and then she vanished.
Marcus frowned, his pulse quickening. He counted to ten in his head, then pushed the glass door open.
The entry bell chimed loudly. The cashier, a bored teenager wearing headphones, didn’t even look up from his phone.
Marcus walked swiftly to the back of the store. The water aisle was completely empty.
There was a heavy metal rear exit door, propped slightly ajar. He pushed through it, stepping out into a damp, pitch-black alleyway that smelled of garbage and wet brick.
It was empty, save for a scrawny stray cat darting violently behind a rusted dumpster.
Panic flared in Marcus’s chest, hot and incredibly sharp. He had lost her.
Then, the low, guttural roar of an engine starting echoed off the brick walls.
Marcus sprinted to the far end of the alley just in time to see a matte black Ducati motorcycle peel violently out from behind a stack of wooden shipping crates.
The rider was wearing a sleek, tinted black helmet and a tight leather motorcycle jacket. But Marcus instantly recognized the shapeless gray coat stuffed haphazardly into the bike’s leather saddlebag.
It was her.
She wasn’t taking the public train back to a cramped studio apartment in the quiet suburbs. She was riding a twenty-thousand-dollar Italian sport bike like a professional getaway driver.
Marcus didn’t hesitate for a microsecond. He stepped into the street and flagged down a passing yellow cab, flashing a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills before the driver could even roll down the window.
“Follow that bike,” Marcus ordered, sliding his massive frame into the back seat. “Don’t get too close. But if you lose her, I lose my temper.”
The driver took one look at the cash, and then one look at the dead, violent stare in Marcus’s eyes. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal.
The chaotic chase led them out of the gleaming, wealthy city center and deep into the industrial, decaying ruins of the South Side.
The freezing rain had escalated into a torrential downpour, blurring the yellow streetlights into long, bleeding streaks of color.
Sarah—or whoever she actually was—rode terrifyingly aggressively. She wove effortlessly through heavy traffic on the I-90 with suicidal precision.
Marcus sat perched on the very edge of the cracked vinyl seat, his dark eyes locked intensely on the single red taillight of the Ducati.
“She’s totally crazy, man,” the cab driver muttered, his hands gripping the steering wheel in a death grip. “She’s doing ninety in the pouring rain!”
“Just keep up,” Marcus snapped, his jaw clenched tight.
They finally exited the highway near Chinatown, navigating a confusing maze of abandoned warehouses and dark, silent factories.
This was incredibly dangerous territory. It was technically neutral ground in the underworld, but it was frequently utilized by the brutal Vance family for heavy arms deals.
Why on earth is my housekeeper driving into cartel territory? Marcus thought.
The motorcycle suddenly slowed down. It turned sharply into the cracked asphalt lot of a massive brick building that looked like an old, condemned meatpacking plant.
A faded, rusted sign above the door read O’Leary Logistics, but every single window was heavily boarded up.
“Kill the headlights,” Marcus ordered instantly. “Stop the car right here.”
He tossed three crumpled hundred-dollar bills onto the front passenger seat and exited the cab before the tires fully stopped rolling.
He merged silently into the deep shadows of a rusted shipping container, his eyes locked on his target.
Sarah parked the heavy bike around the back of the building, completely hidden from the main road. She killed the roaring engine.
Marcus watched from the darkness as she stripped off her oversized gray coat, dropping it to the wet ground.
What it revealed made Marcus’s breath completely hitch in his throat.
She was wearing a form-fitting, pitch-black tactical suit. It wasn’t standard police SWAT gear, but it was incredibly close.
It was utilitarian and dark, with distinct, heavy bulges at her slim waist and ankle that clearly suggested concealed weaponry.
She reached deep into the motorcycle’s saddlebag and pulled out something that shattered Marcus’s entire reality.
She reached up to her head and pulled off her mousy brown hair. It was a wig. Underneath a tight mesh cap, a breathtaking cascade of natural, striking blonde hair fell heavily to her shoulders.
She shook it out gracefully, then tied it back with ruthless efficiency into a tight combat ponytail.
She wasn’t Sarah Jenkins from Ohio. She looked completely different.
She was sharp, incredibly lethal, and beautiful in a way that was genuinely terrifying.
She approached the heavy steel side door of the warehouse. She didn’t knock, and she didn’t look for a key.
She pulled a small, sleek device from her tactical pocket. It was a high-grade electronic lock-picker. Within ten silent seconds, the heavy deadbolt clicked, and she was inside.
