Chapter 3 - THE BOOTLEGGER'S RUN
The basement smelled of old grease, damp earth, and secrets. I clicked on the emergency flashlight I always kept clipped to the wall by the stairs. Its beam cut a weak, yellow cone through the gloom, illuminating the dusty brick walls and the rusting metal door at the far end that led to the old tunnels.
Footsteps thundered on the stairs behind us. I spun around, raising the heavy flashlight like a club, but it was Julian. He was alone.
"Your men?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
"Buying us time," he said grimly. In the harsh flashlight beam, I saw a dark, wet stain spreading across the shoulder of his expensive wool coat. He had been hit.
"You're bleeding," I said, the echo of what I'd said to his son just twenty minutes earlier ringing in my ears.
"It's a through-and-through. Keep moving." He pushed past me, his large frame crowding the narrow space. "Show me the door."
I took the lead, keeping one hand securely wrapped around Theo's shoulder. The kid was practically vibrating with adrenaline, his breath hitching in the cold air. We reached the metal door. I had to kick the rusted latch three times before it gave way with a screech that set my teeth on edge.
Beyond it lay a tunnel made of crumbling brick, barely tall enough for Julian to stand upright. Water dripped from the ceiling, pooling in the center.
"Russo," Julian breathed, leaning heavily against the brick archway. "He knew my schedule. He knew I was tracking Theo down tonight."
"Who is Russo?" I asked, pushing forward into the gloom.
"My underboss," Julian spat, the word laced with venom. "He orchestrated a coup. Thought taking my son would make me surrender the territory. He didn't expect Theo to escape the car and end up in a diner."
Theo looked up at me, his eyes wide in the flashlight beam. "I bit the guy. Hard."
A dark chuckle escaped Julian’s lips, quickly turning into a wince. "That's my brave boy."
We walked for what felt like miles, navigating the labyrinth of forgotten Chicago architecture. Julian’s breathing grew shallower, ragged. By the time we reached the iron rungs leading up to the subway grate, he was leaning heavily on my shoulder, his blood soaking through my shirt.
"We need a safe house," Julian gasped, sliding down the brick wall. "I can't... go back to my own properties. Russo will be waiting."
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I looked at this terrifying man, now pale and sweating, and then down at the nine-year-old boy who was clutching a broken watch like a talisman. I let out a long, ragged breath.
"My apartment is two blocks from this grate," I said. "It's small, it smells like stray cats, and you have to promise not to murder my landlord. But it's safe."
