Chapter 8 - THE CHICAGO SYNDICATE WAR
The firefight was instantaneous and brutal. Dominic shoved me and Audrey behind a massive steel generator, returning fire with a one-handed grip, dropping two mercenaries in seconds. Jax took cover behind a forklift, the deafening boom of his shotgun echoing through the cavernous space.
"Claire, keep her down!" Dominic ordered over the gunfire.
I pressed Audrey to the cold concrete, my body draped over hers. I pulled my Glock, aiming around the edge of the generator, dropping a man who tried to flank us.
"There are too many!" Jax yelled, his arm bleeding from a grazing shot.
Dominic’s eyes were wild, feral. He was a cornered wolf, fighting not for territory, but for his cub. He pulled a fragmentation grenade from his tactical vest, pulled the pin with his teeth, and hurled it into the center of the advancing mercenaries.
The explosion shook the foundation of the building. Smoke billowed, buying us a precious handful of seconds.
"Move! Now!" Dominic commanded.
We sprinted for the rear exit, a heavy iron door leading to the riverfront. Jax provided cover fire, taking a bullet to his prosthetic arm that spun him around, but he kept moving. We burst out into the freezing Chicago air, the icy wind a stark contrast to the burning warehouse behind us.
We scrambled into a rusted, unassuming cargo van Jax had parked by the docks. I took the wheel, the tires squealing as I slammed the gas, tearing away from the industrial district just as more Volkov reinforcements arrived.
Breathing heavily, we sped through the city.
"Who planted the charge?" Dominic demanded, his chest heaving, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.
"It had to be one of Silas’s contacts," I breathed out, my mind racing. "Silas knew about this place. He must have pre-rigged it years ago when he was scouting Mercer safehouses."
Dominic punched the dashboard, denting the cheap plastic. "We have no resources. No safehouses. It's over."
"It's not over," I said softly, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. I looked at Dominic in the dim light of the streetlamps. "You have a phone on you?"
He frowned. "An encrypted burner. Why?"
"Because the Volkovs think the Mercers are dead. But my father didn't just leave me a ghost identity. He left me the Black Book."
Dominic’s eyes widened. In the underworld, the Mercer Black Book was a myth—a ledger containing the blackmail, the secrets, and the sworn blood oaths of every major political and criminal figure in the Midwest.
"You have it?" Dominic asked, stunned.
"It’s buried in a graveyard in Indiana," I said. "But I memorized the emergency broadcast numbers. If I make the call, I can summon the old Mercer loyalists. They won't fight for me as Claire the waitress. But they will fight for Jonathan Mercer's heir."
I pulled the van into an abandoned parking garage. I held my hand out for the phone. Dominic placed it in my palm.
I dialed a sequence of numbers, waited for the three clicks, and spoke a single, chilling phrase.
May you like
"The Falcon is flying."
Within an hour, the streets of Chicago began to burn. Old Mercer loyalists, sleeper cells hidden in plain sight for five years, activated. They hit Volkov supply lines, burned their fronts, and crippled their operations across the city in a synchronized wave of violence. The Chicago Syndicate War had begun.
