Chapter 10 - THE FEDERAL ESCORT
The snow was falling in dense, blinding curtains across the Loop.
At seven-thirty in the morning, Chicago’s downtown streets were paralyzed by slush and emergency traffic.
Outside the Everett McKinley Dirksen Federal Building on Dearborn Street, four state police cruisers sat with their emergency lights flashing.
Two federal marshals stood beneath the concrete overhang, stamping their boots against the biting cold.
Around the corner, Declan parked the battered Ford pickup behind a delivery truck.
Liam adjusted the bandage on his wrist.
"The entire perimeter is covered by Vance’s private contractors disguised as county deputies," Liam said, looking through binoculars.
"If we walk across that plaza, they'll shoot us before we hit the courthouse steps."
"They'll claim Declan resisted arrest on federal warrants."
Norah looked at the massive glass-and-steel building two hundred yards away.
Freedom was behind those security doors.
U.S. Attorney Sarah Vance-Cross.
Marcus Vance’s estranged daughter, who had spent ten years prosecuting organized crime to distance herself from her father’s empire.
She was the only prosecutor in the Midwest who couldn't be bought by the Vance family.
"How do we get the binders to Sarah?" Norah asked.
Declan looked at the three heavy leather volumes.
"We don't walk across the plaza."
Declan pulled his phone from his coat.
He dialed an unlisted ten-digit number.
"Sarah," Declan said when the call was answered on the second ring.
A sharp, professional female voice replied.
"Declan. The state police just issued an all-points bulletin for you."
"My office is surrounded by county sheriffs who don't answer to my division."
"Are you safe?"
"For another five minutes," Declan said.
"I have the original carbon manifests from Terminal Four."
"Covering 1995 to 2010."
A sharp intake of breath sounded over the line.
"My father’s personal logs?" Sarah asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Counter-signed by Marcus," Declan confirmed.
"And Jonathan’s signature authorizing the diversion of three hundred million dollars in illicit freight."
"If you bring those pages into my office," Sarah said, "I can unseal a federal grand jury indictment in twenty minutes."
"I can strip the county sheriff’s jurisdiction and deploy two companies of Federal Marshals."
"There are six shooters on Dearborn Street waiting for me to cross the sidewalk, Sarah," Declan said.
"Then don't cross the sidewalk," Sarah replied.
"The underground pedestrian tunnel connects the Federal Building to the post office basement."
"Sub-level three."
"The old freight tram tunnel."
"The gate has been padlocked since 1982," Declan noted.
"I have the master override code," Sarah said.
"Gate Forty-B."
"Code: 8-8-2-4."
"I'll have four armed federal agents waiting on the other side of the gate."
"Bring me the truth, Declan."
The line went dead.
Declan turned to Liam.
"Take the truck."
"Drive it into the front plaza of the courthouse."
"Blow the horn and make as much noise as possible."
"Draw their spotters away from the southern post office entrance."
Liam grinned through his swollen eye.
"A distraction."
"My specialty."
"Be careful, Liam," Declan said, clasping his friend’s shoulder.
"See you in the grand jury room, boss."
Liam shoved the truck into reverse, tires spinning against the slush as he backed into the avenue.
Declan grabbed Norah’s hand.
"Hold the binders against your chest."
They sprinted down the alleyway toward the rear loading dock of the central post office.
The heavy steel service door was unlatched.
They slipped inside into the warm, roaring belly of the mail sorting facility.
Conveyor belts rumbled overhead, carrying thousands of parcels through the rafters.
Declan led Norah past the sorting bays toward an unmarked iron door marked: UTILITY ACCESS — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Declan kicked the fire door open.
A concrete spiral staircase plunged down into the subterranean darkness beneath Chicago.
They descended three levels into the damp, echoing earth.
The smell of old river mud and damp limestone grew thick.
At the bottom of the shaft ran a narrow tunnel lined with rusted iron tram tracks.
Fifty years ago, small electric carts had carried mail between government buildings beneath the city streets.
Now, water dripped from the vaulted ceiling into pools between the rotting wooden ties.
Two hundred yards down the dark tunnel stood a heavy iron security gate.
Gate Forty-B.
"There it is!" Norah breathed.
They ran along the center of the tracks.
Behind them, echoing down the concrete spiral staircase from the street, came the sound of running boots.
Multiple men.
Tactical gear clattering against handrails.
"They found the door!" Norah cried.
"Keep running!" Declan shouted.
They reached Gate Forty-B.
A digital keypad was mounted on the brick wall, its red LED light blinking through the gloom.
Declan punched the keys with bloody fingers.
8 - 8 - 2 - 4.
The magnetic lock released with a heavy thunk.
Declan shoved the gate open.
"Norah, through! Now!"
She dove through the narrow opening, the three binders secured in her arms.
Declan turned to follow.
From the darkness of the tunnel fifty yards behind them, a single gunshot roared like a cannon in the enclosed space.
The bullet struck the brick wall two inches from Declan’s ear, spraying sharp mortar into his face.
Emerging from the shadows was Jonathan Hayes.
His face was bandaged, his overcoat singed from the furnace explosion.
In his hands, he held an automatic shotgun.
May you like
"DECLAN!" Jonathan howled through the subterranean dark.
"YOU DON'T LEAVE THIS TUNNEL ALIVE!"
