Chapter 9 - THE RUNAWAY PAWN
Dawn broke over Lake Michigan in ribbons of pale gold and slate blue.
Norah woke up to the smell of fresh coffee.
She blinked against the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains.
The armchair by the fire was empty.
A fresh pot of black coffee and a plate of warm croissants sat on the side table, accompanied by a single red rose.
Beneath the vase was a handwritten note in Declan’s sharp script:
Clara is awake. She is asking for you. Take your time.
Norah’s heart swelled.
She threw off the duvet, ignoring the dull ache in her ribs.
She hurried down the hall to room 204.
When she pushed the door open, Clara was sitting upright against the pillows.
The oxygen mask was gone.
A tray of fruit and toast sat before her.
“Norah!” Clara cried out, her eyes shining with tears.
Norah rushed forward and threw her arms around her sister.
They both sobbed, holding each other tightly.
“You’re okay,” Norah wept into Clara’s hair.
“You’re safe, baby. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again.”
“The men in black suits told me,” Clara snuffled, pulling back to wipe her sister’s face.
Then Clara’s eyes dropped to Norah’s jaw.
Her smile vanished.
“Norah... your face. What did Julian do to you?”
“It doesn't matter,” Norah said quickly.
“It’s over now.”
“Who is Mr. Hayes?” Clara asked suddenly.
Norah froze.
“What?”
“The tall man in the dark suit,” Clara said, her eyes wide with awe.
“He came in here at four in the morning.”
“He checked the monitors himself.”
“He asked the nurse if the room was warm enough.”
“Then he looked at me and said, ‘Your sister is the bravest woman in this city. You don't have to be afraid anymore.’”
Clara tilted her head, a mischievous spark in her eyes despite her illness.
“Is he your boss, Norah? Or something else?”
Norah felt heat rush to her cheeks.
“He’s my employer, Clara.”
“He didn't look at you like an employer,” Clara said knowingly.
Before Norah could answer, the door swung open.
Liam stepped inside.
His expression was grim.
“Miss Jenkins,” Liam said.
“Mr. Hayes needs to see you in the underground command room immediately.”
Norah’s stomach dropped.
“Has something happened?”
“Just come with me, please.”
Norah squeezed Clara’s hand and followed Liam down the service elevator into the basement of the estate.
The command room was a high-tech bunker lined with security monitors and tactical maps.
Declan stood over a steel conference table, surrounded by three intelligence officers.
On the main wall screen was a photograph of a burning yacht in the Chicago harbor.
Declan turned as Norah entered.
His eyes swept over her face, ensuring she was unharmed.
“What is that?” Norah asked, pointing at the burning vessel.
“Arthur Sterling didn't go home after the tribunal,” Declan explained.
“He had an offshore escape plan.”
“His yacht exploded ten minutes after leaving the Navy Pier slip.”
Norah gasped.
“Did you...?”
“No,” Declan said, his voice deadly serious.
“We didn't do it.”
Liam tapped the keyboard.
A new set of surveillance photos appeared on the screen.
A man in a dark trench coat was seen boarding a black helicopter near Gary, Indiana.
“Arthur was executed by his backers,” Declan continued.
“The Sicilian cartel known as the Moretti Syndicate.”
“They financed the Sterlings’ port expansion.”
“And now that Arthur has failed, the Morettis are cleaning house.”
Declan pointed to a document on the table.
“Arthur’s private safe was breached before the yacht was destroyed.”
“The files on Thomas Jenkins’s murder are gone.”
“Along with the city’s master port override codes.”
Norah looked at Declan.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Julian Sterling was just a pawn,” Declan said.
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“The real monster is Don Vincente Moretti.”
“And he’s just arrived in Chicago.”
