Chapter 17: Escape

The footsteps came from three separate directions: the east stairway, the west stairwell, and what sounded like someone mounting the fire escape she had used. Derek had planned everything properly, deploying his associates to block every possible departure path.

"You look concerned," Derek said, taking a cigarette from his jacket pocket with deliberate casualness. "Do not be. "This is just business."

Grace's thoughts raced with options. Derek's crew controlled the stairwells of the three-story warehouse, which had boarded windows and concrete flooring. However, industrial structures like this had other elements, such as service elevators, maintenance shafts, and potentially operable loading machinery.

"Santos, do you copy?" she murmured, hoping her microphone was still working.

Derek's loud laugh suggested that he heard her. "Your police friends can't help you right now, Grace. Radio signals can not penetrate these old structures very well, therefore my associates have been jamming communications in this area for the past hour."

The footsteps became louder. Male voices echoed throughout the stairwells, coordinating their approach with military precision. These were not low-level crooks; they were pros.

"How many people have you killed, Derek?" Grace inquired, moving back toward the center of the room, where a cluster of support pillars could provide temporary protection.

"Personally? None. "I’m more of a guide." Derek lit a cigarette, and the flame cast evil shadows on his face. "But the gentlemen joining us have considerably more hands-on experience."

A door smashed open someplace below them, accompanied by the sound of heavy boots on concrete stairs. They were taking their time, knowing she had nowhere to go.

Grace reached the support pillars and flattened her back against the hard concrete, hoping to find something useful among the industrial trash scattered across the floor. Pieces of metal, broken glass, concrete chunks……..nothing that would deter armed professionals, but enough to provide a distraction.

"You know what I find interesting about you, Grace?" Derek proceeded, fully unconcerned about the approaching threat. 

"Most individuals in your situation would be begging right now. Offering money, making promises, and grieving for their families."

"Would it make a difference?"

"Not remotely. "But it would be more entertaining."

The first individual emerged at the east staircase entrance: a man dressed in fancy attire who stood motionless, as if he were about to do professional assault. He inspected the room meticulously, his gaze moving over Grace's position without pausing, evidently convinced she was confined.

A second figure appeared from the west stairwell, moving with the same precision. They stretched out along the walls, blocking her angles while waiting for their third colleague to finish the encirclement.

"Gentlemen," Derek said, "meet Grace Chen. Max's significant other and our main leverage point."

Neither man answered, but their positions altered slightly. They were treating her like a dangerous animal, not a vulnerable victim, implying Derek had informed them on her recent actions.

The third man came at the fire escape opening, trapping her in a triangle of professional killers, with Derek as the apex predator directing the hunt.

"Now then," Derek muttered, dropping his cigarette and crushing it with his heel. "Let's discuss Max's cooperation in concrete terms."

But Grace stopped listening. Her attention was fixed on something Derek's partners had ignored in their strategic positioning…... .a cargo lift shaft in the far corner of the room, its entrance slightly opened and wires showing in the darkness beyond.

Industrial freight elevators were built to withstand large loads, necessitating heavy-duty cables and reliable emergency systems. More crucially, they connected to every floor of the building, including basement levels that may have separate exits.

The shaft was 20 feet away, across an open floor. She'd have to go quickly, hoping the cables were strong enough to hold her weight and that the tunnel led somewhere other than a basement death trap.

"You're not paying attention, Grace," Derek remarked mildly.

"I'm thinking about your offer."

"No, you are calculating escape routes. Probably worrying about the freight elevator behind you."

Derek's nonchalant observation chilled her veins. He had also anticipated this.

"The shaft drops four stories to a flooded basement," Derek added. "The cables were severed six months ago during demolition preparation. Even if you were able to reach them, you would fall into twelve feet of filthy water.

The trap was great. Derek had chosen this place especially because it created the idea of escape routes that were in fact death sentences.

"However," Derek explained, checking his watch, "I'm a sensible man. You have 60 seconds to phone Max and urge him to join us. Do that, and you'll both get out of here alive."

"And if I don't?"

"Then my associates demonstrate why they're worth their considerable fees."

Grace took out her phone and stared at Max's contact details, her mind racing with increasingly frantic ideas. Every alternative led to the same conclusion: Derek had all the cards, controlled all the variables, and had prepared for every eventuality.

Except one.

"Derek," she added softly, "there's something you should know about Max's testimony eight years ago."

"I know everything about Max's testimony."

"Do you know why the prosecutors offered him immunity?"

Derek's confident face shifted slightly. "Because they needed his cooperation to make their case."

"No. Because they required his help to present their case against someone larger than you."

The warehouse fell silent, save for the distant buzz of traffic. Derek's associates remained in their positions, but Grace could see their focus moving to the discourse.

"You were never the primary target," Grace explained, her voice rising slightly. "Max's evidence was not intended to bring down Derek Voss. It was about taking down Vincent Carrera."

The name struck the room with physical force. Derek's cigarette-steady hands began to quiver, as his associates exchanged nervous glances.

Vincent Carrera----------the mafia leader who governed Chicago's underworld for two decades before fleeing to federal witness protection when Max's testimony helped bring down his whole organization.

Derek responded, "That's impossible," but his tone lacked conviction.

"Max wasn't simply running statistics for you, Derek. He was running them for Carrera via you. You assumed you were Max's boss, but you were actually his cover story."

It was a pure invention, yet believable enough to raise doubts. And doubt was all Grace required.

"When Max testified, he wasn't betraying you to save himself," she says. "He betrayed Carrera to save you both. Because Carrera intended to kill anyone who could link him to the money laundering enterprise."

Derek's face had turned pale. "You're lying."

"Am I? Then explain why Carrera vanished right after Mason's testimony. Explain why Carrera's other colleagues were never arrested. Explain why you received only eight years for a crime that should have resulted in a life sentence.

The questions hovered in the air, like smoke. Derek's associates were no longer concerned with maintaining their tactical positions; instead, they were concerned about the consequences of Grace's statements.

Working for someone who had deceived Vincent Carrera was risky. Working with someone who might still have ties to Vincent Carrera was possibly suicidal.

"Call Max," Derek urged, but his voice now sounded desperate rather than confident. "Call him right now and ask him about Carrera."

"Why don't you call Carrera and ask him about Max?"

The suggestion came like a bombshell. Derek's expression shifted between uncertainty, worry, and something approaching terror as he pondered the implications.

If Grace was telling the truth, Derek had spent eight years plotting retribution against the person who had genuinely saved his life. Worse, he was now threatening someone who may still be connected to Chicago's most dangerous criminal lord.

If she was lying, she was buying time by telling a story that his associates would remember long after the night was finished.

Regardless, the balance of power in the warehouse had shifted.

In that moment of uncertainty, Grace moved toward the freight elevator shaft.