Chapter 9 - THE SAFE HOUSE AT THE DOCKS
The rain turned to heavy, wet snow as dawn broke over the Calumet River.
Declan steered an old, dented Ford pickup truck through the rusted gates of the South Chicago drydocks.
He had retrieved the truck from an auxiliary maintenance shed two miles from the burning bungalow.
Liam was in the passenger seat, nursing a heavily bandaged wrist and a swollen eye from the earlier ambush.
Norah sat between them.
Her face was smeared with soot, her hair damp with melting snow.
She still clutched the three plastic-wrapped binders on her lap as if they were made of spun gold.
"Are you sure Jonathan was inside when the gas blew?" Liam asked, his voice gravelly.
"He was near the stairs," Declan said.
"He survived."
"Men like Jonathan don't die that easily."
Declan pulled the truck behind Warehouse Twelve.
An abandoned marine machine shop sat at the edge of the shipping canal.
Corrugated iron walls.
Rusted cranes overhead.
The water in the canal was dark, sluggish with grease and ice.
Declan killed the engine.
He turned to Liam.
"How is the penthouse?"
"Secure," Liam replied, checking an encrypted tablet.
"Dr. Cole moved Clara to our private clinic beneath the Board of Trade building forty minutes ago."
"Jonathan's men hit an empty apartment."
Norah let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
"Thank God," she whispered.
Declan looked at her.
His hands reached out, gently wiping a streak of black soot from her cheekbone.
"You broke the gas line," Declan said.
There was awe in his deep voice.
"You knew the spark would ignite."
Norah looked down at her bruised hands.
"I knew they were going to shoot you."
"I didn't think about the rest."
Liam looked away, a faint, knowing smirk touching his bruised lips.
"I'll secure the perimeter," Liam said, opening the truck door.
He stepped out into the falling snow, leaving Declan and Norah alone in the drafty cab.
The heater ticked softly as the engine cooled.
The silence between them was heavy, filled with the weight of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
"Your brother," Norah said softly.
"He said your father's death wasn't natural."
Declan leaned his head back against the cracked vinyl headrest.
He stared through the windshield at the gray, churning waters of the canal.
"For eight years, I thought I failed him," Declan murmured.
"He died at his desk with a half-empty cup of tea."
"The doctors said his heart gave out from forty years of seventy-hour work weeks."
"I took over the company to honor what he built."
Declan’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel until the plastic creaked.
"And all along, it was Jonathan."
"Poisoning his tea while looking him in the eye."
Norah reached across the space between them.
She placed her small, warm hand over Declan’s clenched fist.
Her touch was soft, but it anchored him against the storm raging in his mind.
"You aren't your brother, Declan," she said.
"And you aren't Marcus Vance."
"You came down into that cellar for me."
"You threw away an empire to protect a girl you barely know."
Declan turned his head to look at her.
His gray eyes were intense, stripped of the corporate armor he wore every day.
"I know you, Norah," he said softly.
"I’ve watched you for three years."
"I know you never leave before your desk is organized."
"I know you bring fresh lilies on Mondays because you think the office smells too much like paper."
"I know you take the stairs instead of the elevator when you're stressed."
Norah’s breath hitched in her throat.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you," Declan said.
He leaned closer until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair framing her temple.
"The only thing I didn't notice," he whispered, "was how blind I was."
Norah’s heart raced against her ribs.
She didn't pull away.
She leaned toward him, her hand tightening around his fingers.
Before their lips could meet, the truck's CB radio crackled to life with a blast of static.
Liam’s voice came through the small dashboard speaker.
"Declan. Turn on the maritime channel."
Declan reached for the radio dial, clicking over to Channel 16.
A recorded emergency broadcast was repeating on a loop:
"All vessels in Cook County waterways:
Federal arrest warrants have been issued for Declan Hayes and Norah Jenkins.
Charges: Grand larceny, arson, and maritime racketeering.
Vessels are instructed to report any sightings to Vance Logistics security patrol.
A bounty of five hundred thousand dollars has been authorized by the District Attorney’s office."
Norah pulled her hand back, gasping.
"The District Attorney?"
Declan’s face hardened into slate.
"Marcus Vance owns the D.A."
"Jonathan supplied the corporate signatures."
"They aren't trying to hide the crime anymore, Norah."
May you like
Declan grabbed the three binders from her lap.
"They're using the entire legal apparatus of Illinois to hunt us down before we can reach the federal building."
