Chapter 4 - The Crane Operator's Cabin
The stairs leading to the gantry crane were open to the wind, the iron mesh steps slick with ice and freezing rain. Nathan climbed slowly, his submachine gun slung over his shoulder, his hands gripping the wet iron rails. Below him, the Calumet River looked like a black ribbon cutting through the industrial waste of the city, the lights of the police cruisers beginning to flicker in the distance as they responded to the gate breach.
He reached the control cabin after three minutes of vertical ascent. The glass door had been shattered from the inside, the fragments of safety glass crunching beneath his boots as he stepped into the small, wire-enclosed space.
Grant Mercer was sitting on the floor behind the main control console, his charcoal coat stained with grease, his clean gloves torn at the fingers where he had tried to climb the ladder in a hurry. He held a small, nickel-plated revolver in his hand, but his arm was shaking so violently the barrel was drawing small, frantic circles in the dark.
"Stay back, Russo!" Grant shouted, his voice rising into a sharp, terrified shriek that was lost to the wind. "You don't know who you’re dealing with! The Lucchese family... they own this route! If you interfere with the Maris Stella, they’ll burn every business you own from Cicero to the Loop!"
"The Lucchese family doesn't own the Chicago canal, Grant," Nathan said, standing in the doorway, the rain washing over his face. He didn't raise his gun. He stood with his hands loosely at his sides, his gray eyes locking onto the broker’s pale face. "And they definitely don't own the two children who ran into my cafe tonight."
"They’re just property!" Grant screamed, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Their father traded them! He signed the agreement before he died! I have the paperwork in my pocket!"
"A father cannot trade his daughters' lives, Grant," Nathan said, taking a step into the cabin. "And a piece of paper doesn't clear a murder charge."
Grant fired once.
The bullet shattered the remaining glass pane of the door behind Nathan, the shards cutting a small, clean scratch across his cheek, drawing a thin line of warm blood. Nathan didn't flinch. He moved forward, his movement fast and silent, his heavy boot catching Grant's wrist before the revolver could align a second time.
The bone snapped with a dry, muffled thud, the gun clattering out of the cabin window to drop eighty feet into the black water of the river below.
Grant let out a sharp, pathetic wail, clutching his broken arm against his chest as he slid down the wall. "Russo... please. I was just the broker. I didn't touch the girls. Victor... your cousin Victor was the one who set the price. He’s the one who told us you were too old to notice what was coming off the ships."
Nathan knelt, his hand reaching into Grant’s coat pocket to pull out the thick leather wallet. Inside, next to a stack of Swiss bank verification codes, was a single, folded contract signed with Victor Moretti’s looping, elegant handwriting.
"Victor," Nathan murmured, his voice dropping to a level that made the broker’s breath catch. "My cousin has always been very efficient with the accounting. But he forgot the first rule of the Russo family."
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"What's that?" Grant whimpered.
"We don't sell our own blood," Nathan said. He stood up, looked down at the shivering man, and turned to the open door. "Caleb, call the port authority. Tell them we have an unregistered freighter three miles out that needs a full customs inspection. And tell them the broker is waiting on the pier."
