Chapter 7 - The Double Cross Within the Cross
The moment the armored door swung wide, Dante rolled out onto the slush-covered asphalt of Michigan Avenue, using the wheel well of the Suburban as hard cover.
*BOOM!*
The tactical shotgun bucked in Dante’s hands. A high-explosive slug tore through the engine block of the lead Cadillac Escalade, detonating the radiator and sending a geyser of superheated steam and shrapnel into the faces of two approaching Russian gunmen. The men screamed, collapsing into the icy gutter.
A third gunman rounded the rear of the truck, his rifle raised to put a burst into Dante’s skull.
*BANG!*
From the open window of the Suburban, Victor fired three steady rounds with his left hand, the bullets punching through the gunman’s tactical vest and dropping him instantly onto the pavement.
“MOVE, DANTE!” Victor yelled through the ringing gunfire. “THEY’VE GOT REINFORCEMENTS TURNING OFF WABASH!”
Dante surged forward, his shotgun roaring in a steady, devastating rhythm. He cleared the remaining shooter with a point-blank blast that shattered the ballistic shield the man was carrying, then sprinted back to the Suburban. He tore the rear door open, reached inside, and hauled Elena out of the wreckage, throwing her light frame over his broad, armored shoulder like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade from a trench.
“Victor! Burn the rig!” Dante commanded.
Victor reached into the glove compartment, pulled the pin on an incendiary thermite grenade, dropped it onto the floorboards, and tumbled out of the driver’s seat. Three seconds later, the interior of the Suburban erupted into an inferno of white-hot, metal-melting chemical fire, destroying the encrypted laptops, forensic hard drives, and any trace of their biometric data.
Through the swirling snow and rising black smoke, Dante carried Elena toward the private service entrance of the Palmer House Hotel.
Elena clutched Dante’s tactical vest with white-knuckled desperation, her face buried against the Kevlar. Every step he took jarred her broken leg, sending bolts of agonizing lightning through her hip, but she refused to scream. She bit down on the collar of her jacket until she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood.
Victor kicked open the heavy brass service door, holding it open with his boot, his weapon drawn and sweeping the narrow, tiled corridor of the hotel’s commercial kitchen.
The kitchen was a scene of industrial panic. Line cooks in white aprons and prep chefs dropped cleavers and pans, screaming and scrambling for the exits as the blood-soaked, heavily armed kingpin strode through the stainless-steel prep stations.
“Where is the service elevator to the fourth floor?!” Dante bellowed at an elderly banquet manager who was cowering behind a stack of dish racks.
The manager’s trembling hand pointed toward a freight elevator at the end of the hall. “The… the Red Lacquer Room is hosting a private banquet! Security is everywhere!”
“Not anymore,” Dante growled.
They piled into the industrial elevator. Dante gently set Elena down against the metal wall, kneeling beside her. Her face was drenched in cold sweat, her breathing shallow, her lips turning a faint, terrifying shade of blue.
“Hang on, Elena,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a rare, desperate tenderness. He pressed a clean cloth against a fresh laceration on her forehead. “Just five more minutes. You stay awake. You hear me? Don't you dare close your eyes.”
“I’m awake…” Elena whispered, her fingers weakly wrapping around his wrist. “Dante… look at the service terminal on the wall.”
Dante glanced up. The elevator’s internal communications screen was flashing with an automated alert broadcast to all hotel security channels.
*ATTENTION ALL UNITS: FEDERAL WARRANT ISSUED FOR DANTE MORETTI. CHICAGO POLICE AND FBI TACTICAL UNITS INBOUND TO WABASH CORRIDOR. ASSIST SPECIAL AGENT CARTER.*
Dante froze.
“Special Agent Carter…” Dante murmured, his eyes widening in sudden, terrible revelation. “Carter isn't the FBI field commander. Carter is the head of the organized crime task force that Leo was meeting with the night he was killed.”
Elena’s eyes widened with pure dread. “Leo wasn't selling out the family to the Kozlovs. Leo was… he was turning state's evidence?”
“No,” Dante snarled, the full, sickening scope of the web snapping into focus. “Leo went to Carter to expose Sofia’s offshore laundering. But Carter wasn't an honest fed. Carter was on Kozlov’s payroll. Sofia didn't just buy the Russian mob—she bought the federal task force. Marcus wasn't her inside man. Marcus was just the janitor. Carter is the executioner.”
The elevator bell chimed with a cheerful, melodic tone.
*FOURTH FLOOR: BALLROOM CONCOURSE.*
The heavy metal doors slid open, revealing the gilded, vaulted hall of the Palmer House’s grand concourse.
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Waiting for them at the end of the hall, flanked by eight tactical officers in unmarked federal body armor and Sergei Kozlov himself, was Sofia Moretti.
***
