Chapter 8 - The Northern Yards
The abandoned shipping yard on the north bend of Lake Michigan looked like a skeletal fortress against the black expanse of the stormy lake. Giant, rusted grain silos towered over the concrete docks, and the waves crashed violently against the breakwater.
Arthur Vance’s limousine pulled into the center of the yard, followed by the SUV containing Clara and Wren, who were tied at the wrists. Vance stepped out, his men shoving Clara and Wren forward toward the base of the central silo.
Holden’s SUV arrived minutes later, turning its headlights off as it drifted into the shadows of an adjacent warehouse. Holden slipped out of the vehicle, his movements silent, lethal, and perfectly calculated. He had managed to contact a secondary tactical unit of his loyalists, who were now quietly surrounding the perimeter, cutting off Vance’s escape routes.
Inside the rusted silo, a single lightbulb hung from a long cord, illuminating a small, makeshift living space. There was a cot, a small heater, and a wooden chair.
Sitting on the cot was a woman. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, her frame painfully thin, but her eyes—the exact same shade of deep blue as Wren’s—were bright and filled with an unbreakable spirit. It was Eleanor Blackwell.
“Arthur,” Eleanor said, her voice weak but steady as the doors groaned open. “Have you come to finish your cowardice?”
“Quiet, Eleanor,” Vance snapped, stepping aside as his men pushed Clara and Wren into the light.
Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat. She stood up, her knees trembling violently. “Wren…” she whispered, tears immediately cascading down her pale cheeks. “My little bird…”
“Mommy!” Wren cried out, struggling against her bonds.
Clara watched the reunion, her own eyes filling with tears despite the terrifying danger they were in. The connection between mother and child was electric, defying the two years of forced separation.
“A touching family reunion,” Vance sneered, drawing a sleek silver pistol from his overcoat. “But unfortunately, it will be your last. The Morettis will be blamed for a tragic fire at this facility tonight. Holden will be left with nothing, and I will assume complete control of the Blackwell syndicate.”
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“You won't assume anything but a grave, Arthur,” a deep, terrifying voice echoed from the shadows of the silo entrance.
Vance spun around, his men raising their weapons, but they were too late. Holden Blackwell stepped into the light, flanked by a dozen of his elite, heavily armed loyalists. Their red laser sights painted the chests of Vance’s mercenaries in a lattice of lethal dots.
