Chapter 6 - THE BOATHOUSE ON THE NORTH LAKE
The matte-black armored SUV cut through the dense fog rolling off Lake Michigan like a knife through silk.
The dashboard clock glowed 2:14 AM.
In the backseat, Marco sat checking the tactical loadout of his submachine gun while two veteran security operatives kept their eyes fixed on the illuminated radar tracking map displayed on the central console.
In the front passenger seat, I stared out the window as the glittering skyscrapers of downtown Chicago dissolved into dark, desolate stretches of marshland and industrial shoreline.
Mr. Moretti hadn't wanted me to come. He had insisted I stay behind at the mansion with Lily and the guards. But when I reminded him that I was the only person who knew where the secondary backup keycards to the estate's security archives were hidden—and that if anything happened to him, Lily would be left without anyone who knew the intricate daily routines of the household—he reluctantly relented, placing a bulletproof vest over my shoulders before we departed.
“We’re two minutes out, Boss,” Marco announced, tapping the tablet screen. “The thermal signature in the upper loft of the boathouse is holding steady. Both heat sources are still inside.”
Luca’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles shone white in the dim green light of the dashboard. He didn't speak. His entire focus was locked on the narrow, unpaved gravel road winding toward the rotting wooden structure looming ahead in the mist.
The old boathouse stood on rotting timber pilings directly over the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan. Its gray wood siding was peeling, its windows smashed out by decades of weather and vandals. But a single, modern luxury sedan—the black rental car Vanessa had used earlier that evening—was parked haphazardly behind a rusted tractor near the entrance.
“Kill the headlights,” Luca ordered quietly.
The SUV plunged into total darkness as we rolled silently off the gravel onto the packed dirt path fifty yards from the boathouse.
We disembarked in absolute silence, the sound of crashing lake waves masking the soft crunch of our boots against the damp earth.
“Marco, take the rear marine access ladder,” Luca instructed in a whisper, his voice carrying the ironclad authority of a commander on a battlefield. “Secure the lower level. If either of them tries to escape by boat or window, cut them off. The rest of you, with me through the main double doors.”
“Copy that, Boss,” Marco murmured, motioning for the two operatives to follow him around the rotting side of the structure.
I stayed close behind Luca as he drew his pistol, checking the slide with practiced, noiseless precision.
We reached the rotting wooden double doors of the boathouse. A rusted padlock hung loosely from a broken latch—evidence that Vanessa and Richard had broken in just minutes before our arrival.
Luca raised his boot and kicked the door inward with a single, powerful strike.
Crash!
The rotted wood splintered, and we surged into the cavernous, damp interior of the lower level, flashlights cutting sharp beams through the dust-filled air.
Empty rusted oil drums, old fishing nets, and rotting wooden crates littered the floor. There was no one on the ground level.
Above us, through the slats of the rotting wooden ceiling joists, came the muffled sound of frantic voices.
“I told you we shouldn't have stopped here!” a man’s panicked voice hissed from the upper loft. “If Luca tracked my phone from the tollway, we’re already dead!”
“Shut up, Richard!” Vanessa’s sharp voice snapped back. “We just need the secondary offshore passport files from the floor safe, and we can catch the dawn freighter out of Milwaukee!”
Luca didn't hesitate. He motioned toward the narrow, creaking wooden staircase leading up to the loft.
We moved up the steps one by one, testing each board to avoid making a sound.
When we reached the top landing, Luca kicked open the warped plywood door leading into the upper loft.
“Don't move!” Luca’s voice thundered across the room, echoing off the iron rafters.
The twin beams of our tactical flashlights illuminated the dusty loft instantly.
Standing near a battered metal desk by the open window was Vanessa, her red satin gown stained with mud and grease. And standing beside her, trembling so violently he could barely hold a leather briefcase, was a tall, thin man in a rumpled doctor’s coat—Dr. Richard Vance.
Richard dropped his briefcase with a loud clatter. His eyes went wide with sheer terror as he stared down the barrel of Luca’s pistol.
“L-Luca,” Richard stammered, raising both hands into the air. “I didn't... I didn't want any of this! Vanessa forced me! She threatened to ruin my practice!”
Vanessa, however, didn't cower. She stood her ground near the open window, her eyes flashing with a desperate, unhinged fury.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object.
It wasn't a knife.
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It was a detonator box with a blinking red LED light.
“Stay back, Luca!” Vanessa screamed, her voice echoing over the roar of the lake waves outside. “One step closer, and I blow this entire pier straight into the water!”
