Chapter 7 - The Loyal Vanguard
Willa kept the Glock trained on Sterling’s forehead while reaching out with her left hand to press the pre-programmed speed dial on the satellite phone. She set it on speaker and placed it on the mattress.
The line rang twice before a deep, gravelly voice answered—a voice that sounded like it had spent thirty years shouting over maritime diesel engines.
“Thorne,” the man said.
“Marcus,” Everett spoke, his voice quiet, raw, but instantly recognizable.
A dead, suffocating silence fell over the other end of the line. For five seconds, the only sound was the distant wind howling off the Calumet River docks.
“...Boss?” Marcus Thorne’s voice dropped into a register of pure, disbelieving awe. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’re talking.”
“I’m awake, Marcus,” Everett said, leaning his weight against Willa as he slowly tested his calf muscles. “And I’m standing in my bedroom.”
“Sterling told the captains you were brain-dead,” Thorne growled, the cold rage in his voice vibrating through the small speaker. “He’s got four private security details from an outside firm guarding the gates. He locked the union reps out of the south terminal three days ago.”
“I know what he did,” Everett said, his dark eyes never leaving his cousin’s terrified face. “How many men do we have at the 95th Street warehouse?”
“Two hundred at the yard. Another sixty at the distribution hub. We’ve been waiting for a reason to break through those gates for six months, boss. We didn't believe the doctors, but Crowley wouldn't let anyone past the second floor.”
“Take the estate,” Everett commanded, every syllable dropping like an execution order. “Disarm the outside security. Secure the perimeter. And bring two sedans to the south garden portico. We have a board meeting to attend at the Drake tomorrow night, and I intend to arrive on time.”
“We’re rolling in twenty minutes,” Marcus Thorne said. “Hold the room.”
The line went dead.
Sterling’s face turned an ashen gray. The arrogance that had carried him through eight months of betrayal evaporated, leaving only the trembling coward who had spent his life living in Everett’s shadow.
“Everett... we’re blood,” Sterling stammered, his hands shaking in the air. “Our fathers built this company together. You can take the assets back. I’ll leave the country. I’ll go to South America. You’ll never see me again!”
Everett didn't answer him. He looked down at Dr. Whitfield, who was already scribbling frantically on a legal pad with a trembling gold pen, sobbing as he wrote out his own death warrant for the state medical board and the Cook County district attorney.
“Willa,” Everett said softly.
“Yes?”
“Can you find my clothes?”
Willa blinked, looking up at him. “Your clothes?”
“The charcoal suit in the cedar wardrobe,” Everett said, his hand sliding from the gun to gently rest on the nape of her neck, his thumb brushing against her jawline with an intimacy that made her breath hitch. “The one with the silk lining. And there’s a green emerald dress in the back of the walk-in closet that belonged to no one. I bought it in Paris two years ago because I liked the color. It’ll fit you.”
Willa’s throat tightened. “Everett, you’ve been in a bed for eight months. You have muscle wasting, dehydration, and your autonomic nervous system is barely stable. You need a hospital.”
May you like
Everett leaned down until his forehead touched hers, his dark eyes fierce and unyielding.
“I’ve spent eight months listening to these jackals laugh at you, Willa,” he whispered, his thumb wiping a speck of dust from her cheek. “Tomorrow night, nobody laughs. Tomorrow night, Chicago remembers who owns this city. And they’re going to meet my wife.”
