Chapter 12 - The Edge of Randolph Street
Z
The fire escape led down into a narrow, dark alleyway behind the Lakeshore Heritage Hotel—the exact same alley where I had found Leo shivering behind a dumpster two nights ago.
Rain was falling again, cold and bitter, washing the plaster dust from my clothes as Marco and I stumbled onto the wet asphalt. Blood was dripping steadily from Marco’s sleeve, pooling in the muddy puddles beneath our feet.
“Keep moving,” Marco wheezed, clutching his wounded shoulder. “My car is two blocks north, near the garage.”
We sprinted down the alley, the iron heels of my boots clicking frantically against the wet brick walls. I clutched the black flash drive tightly inside my jacket pocket, my mind racing back to the fourth floor, back to the sound of gunfire and the man who had walked straight into the storm to save us.
As we broke out of the alley onto Randolph Street, a sleek black sedan pulled up onto the curb, blocking our path.
The rear window rolled down slowly.
Sitting in the back seat, holding a glass of amber scotch and looking perfectly composed, was Julian Moretti. Beside him sat a man in a crisp grey overcoat—a man I recognized instantly from the news broadcasts on the diner’s television.
Senator Thomas Vance. No relation to me, but one of the most powerful political figures in Illinois—and a key member of the board of Moretti Development.
“Miss Vance,” Julian said smoothly, stepping out of the car into the rain. A man in a tailored suit stepped out beside him, holding a small silver pistol fitted with a silencer. “You really are a remarkably stubborn woman. I suppose that’s why my cousin finds you so fascinating.”
Marco reached for his gun, but the armed man stepped forward, slamming the butt of his weapon violently against the side of Marco’s head. Marco collapsed into the rain-soaked gutter, unconscious.
“Marco!” I screamed, stepping back, but Julian’s hand shot out, catching my coat collar and dragging me violently against the side of the car.
“Give me the drive, Willa,” Julian whispered into my ear, his breath smelling of expensive liquor and mint. “Arthur was a fool. Elena was a fool. And Adrian is about to join them in a cold grave on the fourth floor.”
“She’s alive, Julian,” I spat into his face, glaring at him with pure hatred. “Elena is alive. And she knows everything you did.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine, manic fear breaking through his refined composure. He reached into my jacket, ripping the black flash drive out of my pocket.
“It doesn't matter what a dead woman knows,” Julian sneered, raising his hand to signal his armed guard. “End her. Make it look like a robbery.”
The guard raised the silver pistol, pointing it directly between my eyes.
BANG!
A shot echoed down Randolph Street. But it didn't come from the silver pistol.
The guard’s forehead exploded in a spray of dark crimson, his body dropping like a stone onto the wet pavement.
Julian screamed, dropping the glass of scotch as he scrambled backward into the car.
May you like
I turned around slowly.
Standing at the mouth of the alley, soaked in rain and blood, holding a heavy rifle taken from one of the attackers, was Adrian Moretti.
