Chapter 12 - Warehouse 14
The sun sank below the industrial skyline of South Chicago, casting long, bloody shadows across the rusted corrugated iron of Warehouse 14.
The air smelled of stagnant river water, diesel exhaust, and cold metal. Inside the cavernous structure, thirty heavily armed syndicate enforcers stood in defensive perimeters around a raised catwalk.
In the center of the concrete floor, tied to a wooden chair beneath a harsh halogen floodlight, was twelve-year-old Tommy. His pale, bald head was bowed, an IV pole standing beside him with his saline line clamped shut.
Standing behind him was Victor Russo—a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive tailored wool coat, holding a gold-plated revolver. Beside him stood Leo, his arm wrapped in a heavy medical sling.
"Ten minutes late, Liam!" Russo called out into the echoing rafters. "I'm losing my patience!"
The heavy industrial roll-up doors creaked open.
A solitary figure stepped through the gloom.
Liam Mercer walked into the center of the floodlights under his own power, dressed in a long black trench coat, carrying the thick leather-bound ledger in his left hand. He didn't limp. He didn't waver. He carried himself like an emperor returning to claim his throne.
Tommy lifted his tired head, his weak voice trembling: "Clara...?"
"Your sister is safe, Tommy," Liam said aloud, his deep voice echoing through the vast warehouse. "And you're going home tonight."
May you like
Russo's eyes narrowed in genuine shock as he watched Liam walk smoothly across the concrete floor. "Look at you... walking like Lazarus. Leo told me you were spitting blood and rotting in bed."
"Leo is an incompetent traitor," Liam said casually, stopping fifteen paces from Russo. "And you're a dead man standing in an open grave."
