Chapter 4 - Pier SeventeenRain began falling twenty minutes before midnight.
Not soft rain.
Chicago rain.
Cold and hard enough to turn the city into streaks of silver beneath the streetlights.
Pier Seventeen stood abandoned beside the river, surrounded by rusted containers and warehouses that had not seen legitimate business in years.
Raymond had chosen it for a reason.
No civilians.
No cameras.
No witnesses.
Exactly the kind of place where powerful men believed consequences disappeared.
Cole parked two blocks away.
“You stay in the car.”
I looked at him.
“Do you ever get tired of being ignored?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I opened the door.
Michael caught my arm.
“Nora.”
“What?”
“If something starts, stay behind me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your brother.”
“You’ve been my brother for about six hours.”
“Still counts.”
Something inside me warmed despite everything.
“Fine.”
Travis checked the magazine in his pistol.
Cole looked at him.
“No unnecessary shooting.”
Travis raised an eyebrow.
“Define unnecessary.”
“Anyone not trying to kill us.”
“Very generous.”
We approached on foot.
I carried the black duffel.
Inside were photocopies.
The originals were hidden in a location only Michael knew.
Cole had arranged two teams of trusted men around the perimeter.
Michael hated that plan.
“They could be Raymond’s.”
“They’re mine,” Cole said.
“So were the men who shot at us six years ago.”
Cole stopped.
“You think I forgot?”
Michael stared at him.
For a second, I saw history moving between them.
Not friendship.
Not hatred.
Something worse.
Survival.
Travis broke the tension.
“Save the family therapy for after nobody dies.”
We continued.
A single light burned inside the largest warehouse.
Raymond waited beneath it.
He was sixty-three and looked like the kind of man newspapers described as respectable because they were too afraid to describe him accurately.
Silver hair.
Dark overcoat.
Leather gloves.
No visible weapon.
Six armed men stood behind him.
And Patrick was tied to a chair.
Alive.
Barely.
“Patrick.”
I moved forward.
Cole blocked me.
Raymond smiled.
“You look like Thomas when you’re angry.”
“Don’t say his name.”
“He was my friend once.”
Michael laughed coldly.
“You murdered him.”
Raymond looked at him.
“Michael.”
“You should’ve finished the job.”
“I often wonder about that.”
Patrick raised his head.
“Nora... don’t.”
Raymond placed one hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
“This poor man has spent six years attempting to repair something that cannot be repaired.”
“You shot him.”
Raymond sighed.
“One of my employees became enthusiastic.”
“That’s how you describe attempted murder?”
“It’s business.”
Cole stepped forward.
“This isn’t business.”
Raymond studied his nephew.
“What is it then?”
“Your ending.”
Raymond smiled.
“Still dramatic.”
Cole’s hand tightened.
“You arranged the wine spill.”
Raymond nodded.
I looked at Patrick.
He shook his head weakly.
“No.”
Raymond laughed.
“Patrick thinks he arranged it.”
Confusion hit me.
“What?”
“I encouraged Patrick to place you near Cole.”
“Why?”
“To see whether Cole recognized you.”
Cole’s face changed.
“You were testing me.”
“Exactly.”
“If I recognized her—”
“I’d know you remembered more about Thomas than you admitted.”
Michael cursed.
Raymond looked pleased.
“The warehouse shooting accomplished the same thing.”
“You nearly killed your own men.”
“Men are replaceable.”
Travis stepped forward.
“Not all of them.”
Raymond finally looked at him.
“Travis Kane.”
“You remember me.”
“I remember every investment.”
Travis smiled without humor.
“I’m not one of your investments anymore.”
“You always were.”
Raymond returned his attention to me.
“The bag.”
“Patrick first.”
“Nora—”
“The bag for Patrick.”
Raymond considered.
Then he nodded.
One of his men cut Patrick’s ropes and shoved him forward.
Patrick stumbled.
Travis moved to catch him.
Raymond’s men raised their weapons.
Cole’s men appeared on the surrounding catwalks.
Suddenly everyone had a gun pointed at someone else.
Raymond’s smile disappeared.
“Clever.”
Cole answered.
“I learned from family.”
Patrick reached us.
Blood seeped through the bandage beneath his jacket.
I grabbed his arm.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good enough.”
He laughed weakly.
Raymond held out his hand.
“The bag.”
I threw it.
It landed halfway between us.
One of Raymond’s men picked it up.
Raymond opened the ledger.
He read one page.
Then another.
His eyes narrowed.
“Copies.”
“Of course.”
“You disappoint me.”
“I’m devastated.”
He looked at Michael.
“Where are the originals?”
Michael smiled.
“Safe.”
Raymond’s face hardened.
“Nothing is safe.”
Patrick leaned close to me.
“He has a second team.”
My blood ran cold.
“Where?”
“Your apartment.”
I looked at Cole.
He had heard.
“My men are there.”
Patrick shook his head.
“They’re not after the apartment.”
“Then what?”
“The grave.”
My mother.
The cemetery.
Why?
Michael suddenly understood.
“The third copy.”
I turned.
“You hid evidence in Mom’s grave?”
“She did.”
“What?”
Michael’s voice broke.
“Dad gave her one set before he died.”
I stared.
“She buried it?”
“No.”
Patrick whispered, “She buried something else.”
Raymond smiled.
Finally.
He had heard us.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I stepped toward him.
“What was in her coffin?”
Michael looked sick.
“I don’t know.”
Raymond sighed.
“Thomas’s last recording.”
Silence.
My father had recorded his murderer.
Raymond continued.
“Your mother spent four years pretending she didn’t have it.”
“Then why didn’t you kill her?”
Michael stepped forward.
Raymond smiled.
“Who said I didn’t?”
The entire world stopped.
My mother had died of a sudden heart attack.
At fifty-one.
Perfectly healthy.
I looked at Raymond.
“You killed my mother.”
“Nora.”
Cole’s voice came from far away.
Raymond shrugged.
“Her medication was surprisingly easy to alter.”
I dropped the duffel.
Michael caught me before I reached Raymond.
“Let go!”
“Nora!”
“I’ll kill him!”
“That’s what he wants!”
Raymond smiled.
Exactly.
He wanted rage.
Chaos.
An excuse.
Then a red dot appeared on Michael’s chest.
Sniper.
“DOWN!”
Cole tackled Michael.
A shot exploded.
The bullet struck the concrete behind us.
Then the warehouse erupted.
Gunfire.
Shouts.
Metal ringing.
Travis dragged Patrick behind a forklift.
I crawled behind a stack of pallets.
Cole fired toward the catwalk.
Raymond vanished behind his men.
Michael grabbed my jacket.
“Stay here.”
“Stop telling me that!”
He ran.
I followed.
We moved through containers while bullets punched holes in metal around us.
Ahead, Raymond reached a black SUV.
Cole came from the opposite side.
“Uncle!”
Raymond stopped.
For one second, nephew and uncle stood facing each other in the rain.
Cole raised his gun.
Raymond didn’t.
“You won’t shoot me.”
Cole’s jaw tightened.
“You killed Thomas.”
“You still won’t.”
“You killed Nora’s mother.”
“You’re not a killer, Cole.”
Raymond smiled.
“That’s why you’ll never beat me.”
Cole’s finger tightened on the trigger.
I saw the choice tearing through him.
Then Raymond’s hand moved toward his coat.
I screamed.
Cole fired.
The bullet hit Raymond’s shoulder.
He spun and fell against the SUV.
Michael ran toward him.
But Raymond’s driver accelerated.
Michael jumped aside.
The SUV slammed through a chain gate and disappeared into the rain.
Cole stood frozen.
“You should have killed him,” Michael said.
Cole lowered the gun.
“No.”
Michael stared.
“No?”
“If I kill him, he becomes another body.”
Cole looked at me.
“If we expose him, he becomes what he actually is.”
“A murderer.”
“A coward.”
Sirens approached.
Not local police.
Federal agents.
Patrick smiled weakly from behind the forklift.
“I called them.”
Cole’s head snapped toward him.
“When?”
“Before you people turned everything into a western.”
Agents flooded the warehouse.
The lead agent was a woman in her fifties named Sarah Donnelly.
She walked directly to Patrick.
“You look terrible.”
“Nice to see you too.”
I stared.
“You know her?”
Patrick nodded.
“I’ve been working with her for nine years.”
“Nine?”
Agent Donnelly looked at me.
“Your father was our original confidential source.”
The revelation nearly knocked me backward.
“You knew him?”
“I did.”
“You let Raymond kill him.”
Her face tightened.
“Yes.”
No excuse.
No speech.
Just yes.
That somehow made me trust her more.
“We made mistakes,” she said. “People died because of them.”
“My parents.”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the river where Raymond had disappeared.
“Then fix it.”
“We need the original evidence.”
Michael nodded.
“I know where it is.”
Donnelly looked at him.
“Where?”
He hesitated.
Then looked at me.
“Dad’s cabin.”
I frowned.
“We didn’t have a cabin.”
Michael shook his head.
“You did.”
Cole’s phone rang.
One of his guards.
He answered.
His expression darkened.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Raymond’s men reached the cemetery.”
My heart stopped.
“But they didn’t find anything.”
Michael exhaled.
Then Cole continued.
“They left something on your mother’s grave.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
He showed me the image his guard had sent.
It was an old photograph.
My father.
My mother.
Michael as a teenager.
And a baby.
Me.
On the back, someone had written one sentence.
ASK MICHAEL WHO REALLY PULLED THE TRIGGER.
I turned slowly.
My brother had gone completely white.
“Michael?”
He stepped backward.
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nora.”
“Who shot Dad?”
His silence lasted three seconds.
It felt like six years.
May you like
Then Michael looked directly at me.
“I did.”
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