Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Northstar
The room went so silent that the hum of the HVAC unit overhead sounded like a jet engine.
Frank dropped his phone. It tumbled onto the soft rug without a sound. "Vincent... the river. That was six months ago. The Chicago PD called it an icy road accident. A municipal contractor who fell asleep at the wheel."
"David Hayes was never a municipal contractor," Vincent said, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked beneath his bronze skin. "David Hayes was the chief software architect for Northstar Digital Security. Five years ago, Julian Vance tried to buy my family’s freight lines. Vance wanted the deep-water docks to move offshore servers without federal customs oversight. I refused."
Vincent stood up to his full six-foot-two height. His dark eyes burned with an old, agonizing fury.
"Three months after I told Julian Vance to rot in hell," Vincent continued, his voice rough as gravel, "my wife Clara and our eight-year-old son Leo died when their brakes failed on the Dan Ryan Expressway. The police said the hydraulic line snapped. But two days before the funeral, an anonymous envelope arrived at my office. Inside was a flash drive warning me that modern brake controllers could be hacked remotely through the car's cellular antenna."
Vincent looked down at Lucy. The girl’s eyes were the exact same amber-flecked hazel as the engineer who had sent that envelope.
"The letter was signed only with the initial *H*," Vincent murmured. "David Hayes tried to warn me. He tried to save my family. And Julian Vance eventually found out."
Before Frank could respond, a heavy knock rattled the parlor door.
Frank’s hand swept under his lapel, his heavy SIG Sauer clearing leather in a split second. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Frank, it’s Jimmy from the front gate," a voice came through the thick wood. "There’s a woman here. She says she’s looking for her daughter. But we got a problem—there are two black Chevy Suburbans double-parked on Michigan Avenue with government plates that don't come back to any state registry."
Vincent didn't flinch. "Bring the woman in immediately. Lock down the freight elevator. Tell the street crew to box those Suburbans in with our garbage trucks. Nobody leaves the curb until I say so."
The heavy oak door swung open. A woman in a worn wool trench coat and snow boots rushed in. Her face was pale with terror, her blond hair pulled back in a rushed ponytail.
"Lucy!" she cried out, dropping to her knees and pulling the little girl into a fierce hug. "Oh God, baby, I told you not to leave the main bench!"
"Mommy, I'm okay," Lucy said into her shoulder. "Scout found Daddy’s chips. Look."
The woman froze. She raised her head, her gaze shifting from the gutted briefcase on the table to the two imposing men standing in tailored suits. Her eyes landed on Vincent Moretti.
Recognition struck her like a slap. Her breath hitched. "You... you're Vincent Moretti."
"I am, Mrs. Hayes," Vincent said, bowing his head with genuine deference. "And your daughter just saved my life."
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Sarah Hayes pulled Lucy closer, her knuckles turning white. "Then you need to run, Mr. Moretti. Because the men who killed my husband aren't coming for your business anymore. They're coming for what David left behind."
***
