Chapter 4 - Eyes in the Lobby
Sarah Hayes stood up slowly, her hands resting protectively on Lucy’s shoulders. Scout sat firmly beside her feet, his ears pinned back, his golden eyes fixed on the parlor door.
"David didn't die because he knew how to hack cars," Sarah said, her voice shaking but resolute. "He died because he built a backdoor into Northstar's flagship system. Julian Vance has been selling illegal foreign spyware to city officials, police commissioners, and shipping tycoons for the last seven years. He owns half the judicial bench in Illinois."
"I know," Vincent replied darkly. "Three of the men sitting upstairs waiting for my signature right now are on Vance’s payroll. They were going to force the Calumet River sale today."
"David kept an offline ledger," Sarah whispered, reaching beneath her sweater. She withdrew a small, heavy silver locket shaped like an antique compass. "Before the men came to our house that night, David encrypted the master keys to Vance's private offshore accounts onto this micro-drive. He told me to give it to the only man in Chicago who had the power and the hatred to tear Northstar down."
Vincent stared at the silver compass. "Why didn't you come to me six months ago?"
"Because Vance told me that if I stepped within a mile of your territory, he’d kill Lucy in her sleep," Sarah said, tears welling in her eyes. "I’ve been hiding in plain sight in Rogers Park, working night shifts at a dry cleaner. But yesterday, Scout started barking at the public library terminal. A man was watching us from behind the stacks. I knew they found our scent."
Suddenly, Frank’s tactical earpiece buzzed with harsh static.
"Boss!" the radio crackled. It was Jimmy from the lobby security detail. "We got movement! Four men in tactical windbreakers coming through the revolving doors. They’re flashing badges from some federal alphabet soup, but they aren't marshals! They're heading straight for the executive parlor!"
Frank cocked his pistol with a crisp *clack*. "How do you want to play it, Vincent? We got six shooters in the lobby and another ten in the underground garage."
Vincent looked down at Lucy, whose small fingers were twisted tightly into Scout’s fur. The memory of his own son Leo flashed across his mind—an eight-year-old boy who had loved baseball and never got the chance to grow up.
"No gunfights in the public lobby," Vincent ordered coldly. "There are civilians, hotel staff, and children out there. We take the private utility tunnel under the river to the warehouse district."
"Vincent, the briefcase sniffer," Frank pointed out. "If they have tactical gear, they're tracking that signal right now."
Vincent’s lips curled into a grim, predatory smile. He picked up the tiny carbon-fiber transmitter from the sliced leather lining.
"Jimmy," Vincent spoke into Frank's radio. "Take the master key to the penthouse suite on the forty-second floor. Tape this transmitter to the service elevator motor and send it straight to the roof. Let Vance’s dogs sprint up forty flights of stairs while we walk out the cellar."
"Copy that, boss," Jimmy replied, a hint of dark humor in his voice. "Elevator is moving."
"Sarah, Lucy," Vincent said, offering his hand. "Follow Frank. Scout, heel."
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The golden retriever looked up at Vincent, gave a low, understanding woof, and trotted faithfully alongside the mafia boss into the hidden service door behind the mahogany bar.
***
