Chapter 7 - Ambush on Lake Shore Drive
The victory at the Drake Hotel was sweet, but in the underworld, wounded beasts do not die quietly; they lash out with suicidal desperation.
As Julian’s armored Maybach sped south along Lake Shore Drive through a blinding sleet storm, Marcus sat in the front passenger seat, monitoring the police scanners.
"Vance is in federal custody," Marcus reported. "Sterling was picked up at O'Hare trying to board a flight to Zurich. It’s over, boss."
"It’s not over," Julian said, his eyes scanning the dark, icy highway. "Carmine Moretti slipped out the side exit before the feds took the perimeter. Carmine doesn't go to prison. He burns the city down first."
Nora sat beside Julian, the emerald pendant resting cold against her chest. Her heart was beating fast, the adrenaline from the confrontation still singing in her veins. She looked at Julian’s profile—the hard, unyielding line of his jaw, the vigilance in his gaze.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Julian glanced at her, his expression softening by an almost imperceptible fraction. "I told you I pay my debts."
"This was more than a debt, Julian," Nora said, searching his eyes. "You risked your legitimate empire to expose Vance tonight. You brought federal agents into a room where you were standing."
"The feds know where to draw the line with me," Julian replied. "Vance crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. He touched Claire. And he tried to destroy you."
Before Nora could process the weight of his words, Marcus screamed: "INCOMING! BRACE!"
A massive, heavy-duty commercial snowplow, running without headlights, violently broadsided the Maybach from an access ramp.
The impact was deafening—metal screaming against reinforced steel, the Maybach spinning out of control across four lanes of black ice. The bulletproof glass spiderwebbed with white fractures. The vehicle slammed into the concrete lakeside barrier, the airbags deploying with explosive force.
Nora was thrown sideways, her head striking the reinforced doorframe. Darkness swirled at the edges of her vision.
Through the haze of smoke and white powder from the airbags, she heard the rhythmic, terrifying thunder of automatic gunfire.
*Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!*
"Marcus!" Julian’s voice was a roar through the ringing in Nora’s ears.
"Driver’s dead!" Marcus yelled back, coughing blood. "Two chase vehicles! South Side crew! Boss, they’re surrounding us!"
Julian kicked his mangled door open with sheer, furious force. He grabbed Nora by her dress, pulling her down into the footwell behind the engine block.
"Stay here!" Julian commanded.
He unholstered his weapon, his face transformed into a mask of pure, lethal carnage. He leaned out from behind the door, firing with cold, terrifying accuracy. Nora heard screams, the shattering of windshields, the frantic return fire.
Marcus was returning fire from the passenger side, but a burst of high-caliber rounds punched through the door panel. Marcus collapsed backward, groaning, his shoulder mangled and bleeding profusely.
Julian stepped into the breach, his gun barking until the slide locked back. He dropped the magazine, slapped in a fresh one, and kept firing. But the Moretti crew had numbers, advancing with assault rifles under the cover of the blinding sleet.
A sharp, wet sound echoed beside Nora.
Julian suddenly stiffened.
A high-velocity round had clipped him beneath the arm, through the seam of his Kevlar vest, penetrating deep into his right thoracic cavity.
Julian fell back into the car, his breathing turning into a ragged, bloody gasp.
"Julian!" Nora screamed, all thought of her own safety vanishing.
She caught him as he collapsed against the leather seat. Blood—frothy, bright red arterial blood—was already bubbling through his white dress shirt.
"Julian, look at me!" she cried, pressing her bare hands against his wound.
His eyes were losing focus, the immense, terrifying mob boss suddenly reduced to a dying man slipping away into the Chicago freeze.
"Nora..." he whispered, his blood-stained fingers weakly grasping her wrist. "Run... get out... Marcus has a piece..."
"Shut up!" Nora yelled, her voice breaking. "You do not get to die after what you did tonight! Do you hear me, Julian?! Look at me!"
She looked out the shattered rear window. Through the blizzard, flashing blue and red lights were approaching at blinding speed. The sirens were deafening. The Mercer security reinforcements, combined with State Police cruisers, were swarming Lake Shore Drive.
The remaining Moretti gunmen scattered into the night, realizing the ambush had failed.
"Nora..." Marcus groaned from the front, barely conscious. "He’s... he’s choking..."
Nora felt Julian’s chest. The right side wasn't expanding. The trachea had deviated to the left.
*Tension pneumothorax,* her brain screamed. *The collapsed lung is crushing his heart and the vena cava. He has two minutes before cardiac arrest.*
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There was no ambulance. There was no surgical tray. There was only a dying man on a frozen highway.
***
