Chapter 9 - Wrath of the King
I didn't go to the hospital. I went to the armory. With a makeshift bandage strapped tight over my shoulder, I rallied every loyal soldier in the Chicago syndicate. There were no negotiations. No politics. Just pure, unadulterated slaughter.
For three days, the city bled. We dismantled Marcus’s rogue faction piece by piece. We hit their stash houses, their laundering fronts, their docks. I tortured a lieutenant in an abandoned meatpacking plant until he gave me the location: an old steel mill on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana.
“Burn the mill to the ground,” I told my men as we loaded the armored SUVs. “But Marcus is mine.”
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The assault on the steel mill was swift and brutal. We outnumbered them, and my men were fueled by the absolute rage of their boss. We breached the heavy blast doors with C4, pouring into the cavernous industrial complex under the cover of smoke and flashbangs.
I moved through the chaos like a ghost, my assault rifle clearing the path. I only had one thought echoing in my skull. Emma. Oliver.
