Chapter 19 - The Chicago ConnectionThe interrogation room beneath the Savannah warehouse was cold, smelling of salt, engine oil, and raw fear. Viktor, the captured leader of the Chicago strike team, was strapped securely to a heavy steel chair, his face bruised and swollen from the brief, overwhelming ambush at the harbor.
The heavy iron door swung open, and Vincent Moretti walked in, flanked by Marcus. Vincent pulled up a folding metal chair, sat down directly opposite the captive, and rested his elbows on his knees, staring quietly into Viktor’s eyes for a long, agonizing minute.
“You’re a good soldier, Viktor,” Vincent finally spoke, his voice dangerously calm. “You served in the Spetsnaz before taking high-paying wet-work contracts for the Rossi syndicate. So why throw your life away for a dead man walking like Salvatore Rossi?”
Viktor spat a glob of blood onto the concrete floor, offering a defiant, crooked grin. “You think capturing me means you’ve beaten Rossi, Moretti? Chicago isn't Atlanta. Rossi has half the federal judges, three state senators, and an army of two thousand soldiers on his payroll. If I don't check in by dawn, a secondary strike team will hit your Buckhead estate while you’re busy playing family.”
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a sleek encrypted satellite phone, and slid it across the metal table.
“Check your secure comms, Viktor,” Vincent said evenly. “Your secondary strike team didn't make it past our outer perimeter in Buckhead. In fact, Dante intercepted them three hours ago on the interstate. They are currently enjoying the exact same hospitality you are receiving right now.”
Viktor’s arrogant grin vanished instantly, replaced by a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock. He snatched the satellite phone, frantically tapping the screen to ping his squad’s encrypted frequencies. Every single channel returned a dead, static hiss.
“How... how did you anticipate every single move?” Viktor stammered, his bravado completely shattered.
“Because in the underworld, arrogance is a fatal flaw, Viktor,” Vincent said, standing up slowly and buttoning his jacket. “Rossi thinks he’s a king, but he’s just a thug with a fancy bank account. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't feed you to the alligators in the swamp right now.”
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Viktor swallowed hard, trembling violently as the cold reality of death stared him in the face. “Wait! Wait! I can give you something better than my life. I have the exact coordinates of Rossi’s primary underground financial hub on the North Side of Chicago—where he stores the untraceable bearer bonds, encrypted offshore hard drives, and the ledger of every politician on his payroll.”
Vincent looked down at the shivering mercenary, a cold, calculating smile touching his lips. “Now you’re speaking my language. Marcus, patch me through to our private flight crew. We’re taking a little trip to the Windy City.”
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