Chapter 7 - The Inferno at 35th and Halsted
By 2:00 a.m., the grain elevator off 35th and Halsted looked like the gates of hell had opened up in the middle of industrial Chicago.
Two black armored vans smashed through the perimeter chain-link fence, tires screeching against the gravel. Before Moretti’s guards could even reach their automatic weapons, my strike team was already over the perimeter wall, neutralizing the sentries with ruthless, mechanical efficiency.
I stood outside in the pouring rain, watching through binoculars as Victor kicked in the heavy steel side door of the warehouse office.
Automatic gunfire flashed in the darkness—a sharp, staccato burst of violence that lasted less than forty seconds before falling utterly dead.
“Clear!” a voice crackled over the secure comms earpiece.
I walked through the shattered doorway, stepping over the bodies of Moretti’s lieutenants. The room smelled of cordite, cheap whiskey, and panic. Cash, ledgers, and bricks of narcotics were scattered across the floor.
One of Moretti’s underbosses—a greasy, middle-aged punk named Frankie—was zip-tied to a steel pillar, whimpering and bleeding from a gash across his forehead.
I walked up to him, crouching down so we were eye to eye.
“Where is Lorenzo?” I asked softly.
“I—I don't know, man! I swear!” Frankie sobbed, shaking uncontrollably. “He’s at his private estate in Beverly! He hasn't been at the docks in days!”
I stood up, pulling a cigar from my coat pocket and lighting it with a steady hand. I looked at Victor.
“Pour the accelerant,” I ordered, blowing a thin ring of gray smoke into the damp air. “Let Moretti watch his money burn from his mansion window.”
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Within minutes, the entire structure was engulfed in a roaring pillar of orange flame, lighting up the midnight sky over the South Side like a beacon of total war.
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