Chapter 9 - THE FALSE ESCAPE
At four that afternoon, Grace walked out of our front door carrying one small suitcase.
Anyone watching would have seen a frightened wife.
They would have seen pale skin, red eyes, shaking hands. They would have seen Adrian helping her into his car with the tense impatience of a cousin doing something he knew he should not.
They would have seen me nowhere.
That was because I was in the trunk.
Grace had laughed when I suggested it.
Then she realized I was serious.
“You are not hiding in another cramped place because of me,” she whispered in the garage.
“I’m becoming very good at it.”
“This is not funny.”
“No,” I said. “But if I sit in the passenger seat, no one follows.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, then touched my cheek instead.
“Don’t do anything reckless.”
“Define reckless.”
“Anything you would normally do.”
Fair.
So I climbed into the hidden compartment beneath the trunk floor of Adrian’s car, and my pregnant wife became bait while my cousin drove her through Chicago like a man helping her flee her dangerous husband.
The plan worked within eight minutes.
Adrian spoke through the small earpiece Rafael had placed in his collar.
“Black SUV behind us. Two cars back.”
Rafael’s voice came through my own earpiece.
“I have it.”
Grace said loudly, for anyone who might have planted audio in the car, “I can’t go back there. Elias will never forgive me.”
Adrian played his part beautifully.
“You should’ve told me sooner.”
“I was scared.”
“You’re still scared.”
“Yes.”
The SUV stayed behind them through three turns.
Then a second car joined.
Victor was not trusting Dominic’s men alone.
Smart.
Not smart enough.
Adrian drove toward Grace’s doctor’s office first, then changed direction abruptly toward the lakefront. He made it look panicked. Imperfect. Human.
Good lies need flaws.
Finally, he pulled into the underground parking garage beneath an old hotel near Michigan Avenue.
Grace got out with the suitcase.
Adrian followed.
The SUV entered two minutes later.
I slipped out of the trunk while the car was hidden behind a concrete pillar.
Rafael’s men moved like shadows across the garage.
No shouting.
No gunfire.
No drama for cameras.
Just doors opening, men being removed from cars, phones taken, wrists zip-tied, faces pressed gently but firmly against concrete.
One of the men was the same silhouette from the sedan outside our house.
He looked younger than I expected.
Twenty-six, maybe.
Terrified.
I crouched in front of him.
“Name.”
He swallowed.
“I don’t—”
I touched his shoulder.
Not hard.
That frightened him more.
“Name.”
“Peter.”
“Peter what?”
“Lang.”
“Who pays you, Peter?”
He looked away.
Rafael leaned closer.
I raised a hand.
“No.”
Peter was not built for loyalty. He was built for errands.
“Peter,” I said, “you followed my pregnant wife.”
He began sweating.
“I didn’t touch her.”
“That is why we are speaking politely.”
His eyes flicked to Grace.
She stood a few feet away, suitcase still in hand, face calm but pale.
“I was just supposed to watch,” he said.
“Who gave the order?”
“Mr. Vale.”
Dominic.
Not Victor.
Interesting.
“And the phone calls?”
“I don’t know.”
“Envelopes?”
He hesitated.
Rafael opened Peter’s jacket and removed a small stack of cream envelopes.
Grace inhaled sharply.
I took them.
One was addressed to her.
One to me.
One to Mrs. Turner.
Victor and Dominic were splitting pressure points like surgeons.
I opened mine.
Inside was a photograph of Grace from that very morning in Mrs. Turner’s kitchen, crouched after the window shattered.
On the back:
SHE BLEEDS BECAUSE YOU DELAY.
Grace read it over my shoulder.
Her hand tightened around mine.
Peter began talking fast.
“I don’t know who took that. I swear. I just pick them up from a mailbox.”
“Which mailbox?”
He gave us an address in Bridgeport.
Rafael wrote it down.
I stood.
“Let him go.”
Peter blinked.
“What?”
Rafael looked at me.
I nodded.
“Let him deliver a message.”
Peter’s lips trembled.
“What message?”
I leaned down.
“Tell Dominic Vale I know he hides behind Victor because he is afraid to stand alone. Tell him Victor will sacrifice him first. Tell him that when this is over, the city will remember who touched my family.”
Peter nodded quickly.
“And Peter?”
“Yes?”
“Find a new employer before dinner.”
We released him.
He ran so fast he nearly fell.
Grace watched him disappear.
“You scared him.”
“I encouraged him.”
She gave me a look.
I almost smiled.
Then Adrian opened the envelope addressed to Mrs. Turner.
His face changed.
“What?”
He handed it to me.
Inside was a photograph of Mrs. Turner’s daughter and grandchildren outside a school in Oak Park.
Grace whispered, “No.”
Victor was expanding the circle.
Punishing anyone who helped us.
My phone rang.
Mrs. Turner.
I answered.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
“Elias, my daughter just called. A man approached her at school pickup.”
“Is she safe?”
“Yes. For now.”
“Come to the house.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Turner.”
“I spent twenty years being afraid of men like Dominic Vale. I am finished.”
“What are you doing?”
“Something your father should have done.”
The line clicked dead.
Rafael cursed.
Grace looked at me.
“Where would she go?”
I looked at the envelope.
At the photograph.
At the school name.
Then I understood.
Not the cemetery.
Not the social club.
May you like
Mrs. Turner was going to Dominic Vale’s office.
Alone.
