Chapter 7 - Shattered Glass
Roman didn't kick the door; he hit it with the full weight of his shoulder, splintering the wooden frame and bursting into the cavernous darkness of the gymnasium.
The high-ceilinged room smelled like old basketballs, dust, and raw accelerant.
At the center of the court, under the single hanging halogen work light, Eli Turner was tied to a folding metal chair. A piece of silver duct tape was slapped across his mouth, his nose was bloody, and his eyes were wild with absolute, helpless terror.
Standing five feet away, holding a bright red five-gallon plastic fuel can, was Julian Vance.
Julian had discarded his tuxedo jacket. His white shirt was soaked in sweat and rain, his hair plastered to his forehead, his face twisted into an expression of frantic, unhinged delirium. In his right hand, hovering inches above the gasoline-soaked hardwood floor, was a silver Zippo lighter.
Behind him stood two hired heavies, their jackets open to reveal the grips of machine pistols tucked into their waistbands.
“Step back, Roman!” Julian screamed, his voice echoing off the corrugated steel ceiling like a shrieking animal. “Step the hell back, or I drop it! I drop it right now!”
Roman stopped twenty feet out. He didn't raise his weapon; he kept it lowered against his thigh, his posture deceptively loose, like a wolf measuring the distance to a throat.
Marcus slipped through the door behind them, moving laterally into the shadows near the bleachers, his weapon already drawn and silent.
Hannah stepped into the light beside Roman, her bare feet cold against the floorboards.
When Eli saw her, a muffled cry tore through his throat behind the tape, his heels kicking uselessly against the legs of the chair.
“Let the boy go, Julian,” Roman said. His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of all inflection. It was the tone of a judge reading a predetermined verdict. “Your fight is with me. The federal agents are at your house. Sterling has already broken. It’s over.”
“It’s not over!” Julian shrieked, his eyes bulging as he flicked the Zippo open. A small, yellow flame blossomed in the drafty room. “I spent forty million dollars on the North Harbor rights! Forty million! You think I’m going to let some fat Rogers Park bookkeeper and a washed-up thug take it from me? I burn this place to the foundation! I burn the spur! If I can't have the shipping terminal, you’ll spend the next ten years clearing asbestos out of the soil!”
Hannah took a slow, deliberate step forward.
“Julian,” she said.
“Shut up!” Julian roared, brandishing the lighter toward her. “Shut your mouth, you pathetic little clerk! You did this! You gave him the papers!”
“Yes, I did,” Hannah said, her voice impossibly steady, cutting through the panic in the room like a cold knife. “Because you’re a thief. You stole from this city, you stole from these kids, and now you’re standing in a gymnasium trying to murder a twenty-year-old boy who works two jobs to pay his tuition.”
“Hannah,” Roman warned under his breath, his eyes never leaving the hired men behind Julian.
Hannah didn't stop. She kept walking forward, the hem of her wet emerald dress trailing through the sheen of gasoline on the floor.
“Look at you, Julian,” she said, her voice dripping with pure, unadulterated contempt. “You were born with everything. A name, a trust fund, an empire handed to you on a silver platter. And you’re still a coward. You’re still terrified of Roman because you know that if you took away your money, you wouldn't survive three days in the world he came from.”
“You think I’m scared of him?” Julian’s voice cracked. His hand holding the lighter trembled violently. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill all of you!”
“You won't,” Hannah said, stopping ten feet away from him. “Because you’re terrified of dying. If you drop that lighter, you burn with us. There’s forty gallons of aviation fuel spread across this court. The fire will hit the ceiling in four seconds. You won't make it to the doors.”
Julian’s eyes darted frantically around the room. For a fraction of a second, the reality of what he had prepared penetrated his drug-fueled panic. He looked down at the puddle beneath his own designer shoes.
That split-second of hesitation was all Roman needed.
Roman moved with a speed that defied his size. He closed the distance in two explosive strides, lunging not for Julian’s chest, but for the arm holding the lighter.
One of the hired men went for his waistband.
*Crack.*
A single shot echoed from the shadows near the bleachers. Marcus Reed’s bullet took the first guard in the shoulder, spinning him into the folding chairs with a deafening crash of metal.
The second guard panicked, turning his weapon toward Hannah.
“Hannah, down!” Roman bellowed.
Roman didn't dive for cover. He didn't seek the protection of the concrete pillars.
He threw his entire body across the space between them, slamming into Hannah, his broad back forming a living shield between her and the muzzle of the guard’s gun.
*Crack. Crack.*
Two gunshots shattered the air.
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Hannah felt the violent impact shudder through Roman’s heavy frame. A sharp, guttural gasp tore from his throat as the force of the bullets slammed into him, knocking them both hard against the floorboards.
***
