Chapter 12 - Faint sirens wail in the distance while the American flag flutters softly against the drafty window signaling the arrival of an inevitable bloody reckoning.
Faint, distant sirens wailed somewhere across the sprawling grid of the Chicago metropolitan police district.
They weren't coming for Salvatore; the city's finest knew better than to interfere in family business.
The American flag hanging outside the precinct headquarters miles away fluttered against the cold autumn breeze.
It stood as a silent witness to a nation built on law, order, and the violent underground empires beneath.
Inside the abandoned meatpacking plant, Salvatore moved through the dusty corridors with predatory grace.
Rows of stainless-steel processing tables stood empty, covered in layers of grime and old industrial rust.
Up ahead, muffled voices echoed through an open doorway leading into what appeared to be a makeshift office.
Brun froze in his tracks, dropping low to the ground and wagging his tail in tense anticipation.
Salvatore raised his hand to signal his enforcers to hold their positions in the dark corridor behind him.
He crept closer to the doorway, peering cautiously into the brightly lit room cluttered with computer monitors.
Two men in expensive European suits were frantically packing hard drives into a black leather briefcase.
"Marcus didn't check in; the old man must have figured it out by now," one man spoke in broken English.
"We need to burn the servers and get to O'Hare before their private detail shuts down the tarmac," the other replied.
Salvatore stepped through the doorway into the light, resting his hand casually on his shoulder holster.
"You won't be catching any flights out of Chicago today, gentlemen," Salvatore announced smoothly.
The two men spun around in sheer terror, their hands hovering helplessly over their empty jacket pockets.
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Brun stepped into the room beside Salvatore, baring his teeth and letting out a sharp, terrifying bark.
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