Chapter 4 - THE DRAKE HOTELThe rain that had battered New England followed Chase all the way across the Rust Belt.
The black Charger tore through the grey, endless ribbon of Interstate 90 like a phantom, its twin-turbo engine screaming against the wet asphalt. Chase drove straight through the day and into the night, stopping only for three minutes at a desolate gas station in northern Indiana to pour high-octane fuel into the tank from a steel jerrycan he kept in the trunk. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. The pink butterfly rested cold against his chest, a physical anchor keeping his mind sharp through the fog of fatigue.
By 2:00 a.m. Monday morning, the towering, illuminated sign of the Drake Hotel pierced the thick fog hanging off Lake Michigan.
Chase parked the Charger three blocks away in a dark, forgotten alley behind an abandoned warehouse. He stepped out into the biting Chicago wind, pulling his dark trench coat tight over his tactical vest.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was an encrypted satellite text from Sparrow:
“We arrived in Chicago two hours ago. Hannah and the child are secured at the safehouse in Oak Park. I am positioned on the roof of the adjacent building facing the Drake's north face. Marco has six armed men on floor 16. Bass is alive, but injured. They are preparing to move him.”
Chase typed back a single word: “Wait.”
He pulled his earpiece into place and adjusted the suppressor on his Sig Sauer. Then, he moved toward the hotel.
The Drake was an iconic landmark—a grand, jazz-age palace of limestone and gold leaf, catering to politicians, celebrities, and wealthy industrialists. But beneath its polished brass fixtures and crystal chandeliers, Marco Falcone had turned the sixteenth floor into a temporary command post. Falcone’s men had bought off the night security supervisor, disabling the floor’s corridor cameras and locking the service elevators.
Chase didn’t use the elevators.
He entered through the hotel’s subterranean laundry intake—a route Sparrow had mapped out using the building’s original 1920 plumbing blueprints. Climbing the dark, dusty concrete steps of the fire exit, Chase moved silently upward, his heart beating with a steady, rhythmic calm.
When he reached the door marked 16th Floor, he paused, listening through the heavy steel.
“—just toss him out the window,” a man’s voice rasped from the hallway inside. “Make it look like he jumped because of the embezzlement scandal. The news will buy it.”
“Marco wants it done clean, Tony,” another voice replied. “A bullet in the leg first to make sure he writes the confession letter, then we drop him. Go get the ink pen from the desk.”
Chase didn’t wait.
He kicked the fire exit door inward with maximum force. The heavy steel door slammed into the first guard, throwing him backward onto the plush floral carpet of the hallway.
Before the second guard could react, Chase raised the Sig Sauer. Thwip. Thwip.
Two rounds caught the second hitman squarely in the chest plate. The man gasped, stumbling backward into room 1604, crashing over a wooden luggage rack.
Chase stepped into the hallway, his boots silent against the carpet. He kicked the first guard’s dropped weapon down the corridor, grabbed the man by his tactical vest, and dragged him inside room 1604, shutting the door behind them.
The suite was vast and luxurious, but it reeked of copper, cheap tobacco, and fear.
Tied to a heavy mahogany dining chair in the center of the room was Daniel Bass.
The seventy-two-year-old attorney looked battered. His expensive wire-rimmed glasses were broken on the floor, his white hair was stained with dark blood from a cut above his left eyebrow, and his crisp white dress shirt was torn at the collar. But his dark eyes were clear, fierce, and unbroken.
Beside him stood Marco Falcone’s top lieutenant—a brute named Sal “The Hammer” Ruggiero. Sal had his heavy hand wrapped around Bass’s throat, a silver-plated Colt .45 pressed against the old lawyer’s temple.
“Don't move, Donovan!” Sal roared, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings of the suite. “One more step and I paint this wallpaper with your lawyer’s brains!”
Chase stopped ten feet away. He slowly lowered his gun arm, pointing the suppressor toward the floor.
“Look at you, Chase,” Sal sneered, a cruel grin spreading across his heavy face. “Drove all night just to watch your old man’s lawyer die? You’re too late. The paperwork transferring the harbor leases to Marco was signed twenty minutes ago. We forced the old man’s hand.”
Daniel Bass coughed, spit blood onto the carpet, and looked up at Chase. “I... I didn’t sign the master ledger, Chase,” Bass rasped, his voice ragged. “They got... they got my personal signature on the lease transfers, but... without the master security key... it’s worthless.”
“Shut up, old man!” Sal barked, pressing the gun harder into Bass’s head.
“You’re right, Daniel,” Chase said softly, his eyes fixed on Sal. “It is worthless.”
“You think you’re smart, Donovan?” Sal yelled. “I’m taking his head off right now!”
“No,” Chase said calmly. “You aren’t.”
“Why the hell not?!”
“Because my sniper has had his crosshairs on your right eye for three minutes,” Chase said.
Sal’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second toward the massive double-paned window behind him, which overlooked Lake Michigan and the rooftops of the neighboring buildings.
In that fraction of a second, the window shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
CRACK!
A high-caliber sniper round from Sparrow’s rifle ripped through the glass, striking Sal’s right shoulder with immense force, throwing him backward onto the floor before he could squeeze his trigger.
Chase closed the distance instantly. He smashed Sal’s arm with his boot, sending the Colt .45 spinning across the carpet, then placed the barrel of his Sig Sauer against Sal’s forehead.
“Don’t,” Sal gasped, his face pale with pain and terror. “Please... Marco... Marco made me do it...”
“Where is Marco?” Chase asked.
“Penthouse...” Sal choked out. “Floor 21... He’s... he’s leaving on a private helicopter from the roof at 3:00 a.m.!”
Chase pulled a set of zip-ties from his coat, bound Sal’s legs and remaining arm securely to the radiator pipe, and then rushed to Daniel Bass’s side. He drew a pocket knife and sliced through the heavy ropes binding the old man’s wrists.
“Are you alright, Daniel?” Chase asked, holding the attorney’s trembling shoulders.
Daniel took a deep, ragged breath, clutching Chase’s forearms. “I’m alive, Chase,” the old man whispered, tears welling in his tired eyes. “They... they told me you ordered this. They showed me a video of you... ordering my execution.”
“It was a fake, Daniel,” Chase said gently. “Vince created it with AI. He betrayed us.”
Daniel closed his eyes, a heavy sigh tearing from his chest. “Vince... I held that boy at his baptism... How could he?”
“Greed makes men blind,” Chase said. He pulled Daniel to his feet. “Sparrow is waiting on the service elevator level. He’s taking you to the safehouse.”
“What about you?” Daniel asked, gripping Chase’s sleeve. “Chase, Marco Falcone has forty years of political connections! If you kill him on that roof, the entire federal system will come down on your head!”
Chase reached into his vest and pulled out the waterproof steel case containing his hard drives. He handed it to Daniel.
“This isn’t a mob war anymore, Daniel,” Chase said, his voice ringing with absolute clarity. “This is a trial. These drives contain every bribe Marco Falcone ever took, every shell company Vince built for him, and the unedited raw footage proving my innocence. Take this to the United States Attorney in Chicago. You’ve known him for twenty years.”
Daniel looked at the steel case, then up at Chase. “And Marco?”
May you like
Chase turned toward the door leading to the roof stairs.
“Marco has a flight to catch,” Chase said. “I’m going to make sure he misses it.”
