Chapter 13 - THE ULTIMATE STANDOFF AT THE WAREHOUSE
Three days later, the fallout dominated every major news network across America.
“MORETTI EMPIRE COLLAPSES: FEDERAL RAIDS SEIZE BILLIONS IN CORRUPT ASSETS.”
Headlines flashed across television screens in every airport and diner from coast to coast.
Vincent Moretti was on the run.
With a wounded shoulder, frozen bank accounts, and every federal agency in the country hunting him, Chicago’s most feared mafia boss had retreated to his final stronghold.
An abandoned shipping warehouse on the dark industrial docks of Lake Michigan.
That was where federal intelligence tracked his burner phone signal late Thursday night.
I sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked FBI SUV parked half a mile from the dock.
Agent Miller glanced over at me.
“You don't have to come with us, Mrs. Moretti,” Miller said gently.
“We have enough tactical units to handle him.”
“I have to see it end, Agent Miller,” I replied, opening the car door.
“Face to face.”
I stepped out into the biting wind, pulling my trench coat tight against my chest.
The tactical team moved forward in absolute silence, enveloping the rusted metal warehouse from all sides.
Agent Miller signaled the breach.
Bang!
The heavy sliding doors of the warehouse blew inward under a controlled explosive charge.
“Federal agents! Drop your weapons!” shouts echoed through the cavernous building.
I walked in behind the second wave of agents.
Rows of stacked shipping containers loomed in the dim overhead lighting.
In the center of the concrete floor stood Vincent Moretti.
His white shirt was stained with dried blood around his wounded shoulder.
His hair was messy.
His hands were empty.
May you like
He stood alone, surrounded by a dozen armed federal agents.
As I stepped out from the shadows of the containers, Vincent’s eyes locked onto mine.
