Chapter 11 - The Trap at the Bellini EstateThe old grain silos rose against the stormy sky like giant concrete tombs.
Six massive cylinders, eighty feet high, abandoned since the 1980s.
Rust covered the corrugated metal walkways connecting them.
Below, the Chicago River churned black and swollen from the rain.
We parked two blocks away in the industrial wasteland.
No streetlights.
No sirens.
Just the howl of wind whipping through broken sheet metal.
Marco and his three surviving men spread out into the shadows.
Michael remained in the surveillance van with the city blueprints.
Luca and I moved through the overgrown weeds along the riverbank.
My sneakers were soaked through.
The cold seeped into my bones.
Yet my grip on the Glock in my pocket remained steady.
“The gas manifold is in the basement beneath Silo Three,” I whispered.
Luca nodded.
He carried a shortened automatic rifle slung across his chest.
We slipped through a rusted gap in the chain-link fence.
A guard stood near the loading dock, smoking a cigarette beneath an awning.
Luca moved silently.
Like a ghost.
He appeared behind the guard before the man could drop his cigarette.
Luca’s arm locked around the man’s throat.
A quick twist.
A sharp snap.
Luca lowered the limp body gently into the weeds.
He took the man’s radio and earpiece.
He slipped the earpiece into his ear.
Static hissed.
Then Matteo’s voice crackled through the channel:
“All teams. The Zurich wire failed. The transfer was blocked.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed.
“Luca is coming,” Matteo’s voice continued.
“Kill anyone who approaches the perimeter. If he reaches the catwalks, blow the line.”
Luca turned to me.
“He knows.”
“We have to reach the manifold before he hits the trigger,” I whispered.
We entered Silo Three through a low concrete hatch.
The smell inside was overwhelming.
Rotting grain.
Mildew.
And the sharp, rotten-egg odor of natural gas.
“There’s a leak,” I whispered, horrified.
“He already cracked the pipes.”
Luca pulled a tactical flashlight from his belt.
The beam cut through floating dust motes.
In the center of the cavernous concrete cylinder stood an industrial nightmare.
Three fifty-gallon drums of commercial fertilizer.
Wired together with detonation cord.
And taped to the center drum was a digital transceiver.
The shutoff wheel for the gas line was ten feet beyond the explosives.
A rusted yellow wheel, chained to an iron pipe.
“Emma,” Luca murmured.
“Can you turn that wheel?”
“It's chained,” I said, pointing at the heavy padlock.
Luca reached into his tactical pouch.
He pulled out a compact set of bolt cutters.
Suddenly, floodlights flared to life high above us.
Blinding white light poured down from the elevated iron catwalks.
“Welcome home, little brother!”
A voice boomed through the hollow concrete chamber.
High above, standing on the narrow steel walkway sixty feet up, stood Matteo Moretti.
His face was grotesque in the white glare.
The left side of his skin was smooth and handsome.
The right side was a twisted, melted landscape of purple and white scar tissue.
No ear.
No hair on the right side of his scalp.
His right eye was a milky, lidless sphere.
Beside him stood Don Salvatore Bellini.
The old man’s face was wrapped in bloody bandages from the boiler steam.
In Matteo’s hand gleamed a small red remote detonator.
“Did you like my surprise, Luca?” Matteo screamed down.
His voice bounced off the curved concrete walls.
Luca stepped into the center of the floor, pulling me behind his broad back.
“Come down here, Matteo,” Luca called out calmly.
“Settle this like a man.”
Matteo threw his head back and laughed.
A jagged, broken cackle.
“I was a man before you burned me!”
“You set that fire yourself!” Luca shouted.
“You tried to kill me in that car, Matteo! You forgot I swapped the keys that morning!”
Matteo’s laughter abruptly died.
The scarred side of his face twitched violently.
“Father loved you more,” Matteo hissed.
“Father knew you were a monster,” Luca replied.
Don Bellini raised a trembling hand toward Luca.
“Kill him, Matteo! Blow the line!”
Matteo smiled.
His thumb hovered over the red button.
“Goodbye, little brother.”
I didn't wait for Luca.
I aimed my Glock straight at the steel cable supporting the catwalk above.
I fired three rapid shots.
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The heavy steel wire snapped with the scream of tearing metal.
The entire catwalk tilted forty-five degrees into empty air.
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