Chapter 8 - THE SWITCHING YARDS OF 16TH STREET
The blizzard had reached peak fury by eight o'clock.
The Chicago skyline was erased behind a swirling wall of white ice.
At the 16th Street rail junction, forty acres of rusted tracks and frozen gravel were illuminated by the harsh, yellow glare of industrial sodium floodlights.
Ten massive black tanker cars sat on Track Nine, their steel hulls stenciled with bright red letters:
DANGER: PRESSURIZED LIQUID PROPANE.
Surrounding the tankers were sixty heavily armed mercenaries from Vance Harbor Security, wearing white winter parkas and carrying automatic rifles.
In the center of the control tower platform stood Marcus Vance.
He had abandoned his silver walking cane.
His legs were heavily bandaged, his face bruised from the highway crash, but his eyes were filled with the psychotic mania of a man who knew he had reached the end of his chessboard.
In his hand, he held a military-grade digital detonator with a glowing red LED display.
A radio crackled on his tactical vest.
Julian’s voice drifted through the speaker, strained, weeping, and broken:
"Dad... stop... he has the key... he knows about 2020..."
Marcus smashed the radio against the iron railing of the tower, sending plastic shards flying into the snow.
"Weak little bastard," Marcus spat into the wind.
He looked down at the switching yard.
From the dark timberline along the south canal, the roar of six heavy diesel engines broke through the storm.
Six armored tactical trucks emerged from the blizzard, their heavy plows pushing aside the drifts of snow.
The lead truck slammed through the wooden perimeter gates of the rail yard, scattering the armed guards into the slush.
The convoy came to a sliding halt eighty yards from Track Nine.
The doors of the lead vehicle opened.
Rhett Valin stepped out into the freezing gale.
He wore no helmet.
No heavy tactical parka.
Just his three-piece black suit, his coat unbuttoned, his silver signet ring gleaming under the sodium lights.
In his right hand, he held his Kimber .45.
In his left, he held the tiny brass key from the Cicero bank.
Flanking him were forty Valin family soldiers, their rifles raised in synchronized, terrifying discipline.
"Marcus!" Rhett’s voice boomed across the frozen tracks like thunder.
"Step down from the tower!"
"The Commission has revoked your charter!"
Marcus Vance let out a dry, rattling laugh that echoed through the empty rail yard.
"The Commission is six old men pissing in their trousers, Rhett!"
Marcus held up the digital detonator.
"You step one foot closer to Track Nine, and I trigger the primary charge on Tanker One!"
"Six hundred tons of liquid propane, boy!"
"The blast will wipe out three square miles of the South Loop!"
"Your family's mansions!"
"Your precious shipping docks!"
"Everything your father built!"
Rhett did not slow his stride.
He walked forward across the frozen gravel, stepping over the rusted iron rails with absolute, terrifying calm.
"My father built this empire with his hands, Marcus," Rhett said, his voice carrying over the wind.
"You killed him with three drops of arsenic in his midnight espresso."
Marcus’s face tightened.
"He was an obstacle!"
"He wanted to turn the shipping lines over to the state!"
"He was weak!"
"He died like an old dog in his bed!"
"And you are going to die in the snow," Rhett replied.
Rhett raised his left hand toward the south canal.
He made a single, sharp chopping motion with two fingers.
Marcus sneered, his thumb pressing down on the red detonator switch.
"Burn in hell, Rhett!"
Marcus clicked the button.
Nothing happened.
No explosion.
No fireball.
Only the cold wind howling through the empty boxcars.
Marcus clicked it again frantically.
Click. Click. Click.
"What the hell?!" Marcus screamed, shaking the plastic unit.
"Why isn't it firing?!"
From the shadow of the coal shed on Track Four, a slender figure stepped into the glare of the sodium lights.
Me.
I wore the heavy charcoal cashmere sweater and dark trousers, my black fiberglass cast resting against my ribs.
In my uninjured right hand, I held an iron crowbar.
Beside my boots, the rusted steel pneumatic lever of the secondary switching line sat jammed into the bypass position.
The four-inch pressurized propane conduits running to Tanker One had been completely severed.
The gas was venting harmlessly into the frozen river two miles downstream.
Marcus Vance stared down from the control tower at me.
His jaw dropped in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
"Isa...?" Marcus stammered.
"You're a clerk's daughter..."
"How did you know about the bypass?!"
I looked up at the old monster who had sold my mother's life for dock territory.
"My father spent twenty years building this yard, Mr. Vance," I called out, my voice ringing clear across the snow.
"He knew every pipe."
"He knew every valve."
"And he knew that one day, you would try to burn his city down."
Marcus let out an animal howl of pure, unbridled rage.
He drew a heavy automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, aiming directly down at my chest.
Before his finger could touch the trigger, a single gunshot cracked from the center of the tracks.
BANG.
The heavy .45 round from Rhett’s Kimber struck Marcus Vance’s right shoulder, spinning him around with a wet, sickening smack.
His pistol flew from his fingers, clattering over the iron railing into the snow below.
Marcus collapsed against the control console, clutching his ruined arm, sobbing in agony.
The sixty Vance mercenaries threw down their rifles simultaneously, raising their hands into the air as Rhett’s soldiers surrounded the platform with leveled weapons.
Rhett climbed the iron stairs of the control tower.
His boots sounded against the metal grating like the steps of an executioner.
He reached the top landing.
He stood over Marcus Vance, looking down at the bleeding, broken patriarch with cold, absolute disgust.
Rhett reached into his vest pocket.
He pulled out the micro-cassette recorder he had retrieved from the Cicero safe deposit box thirty minutes earlier.
He pressed play.
Marcus Vance’s own voice echoed from the tiny speaker, recorded four years ago in a private office:
"Make sure the arsenic is pure, Julian.
Don Valin drinks his coffee at midnight.
By morning, the South Side belongs to us."
Marcus looked up at Rhett with wide, terrified eyes.
"Rhett... please..." Marcus wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips.
"We were brothers... your father and I..."
Rhett lowered his Kimber until the cold steel barrel rested directly against Marcus Vance’s forehead.
"My father is waiting for you in hell, Marcus," Rhett whispered.
May you like
"Tell him I kept my word."
BANG.
