Chapter 7 - The Baker’s Wrath
The South Side shipping yard smelled of stagnant river water, rust, and burning diesel.
I killed the van’s headlights a block away from Warehouse 14, cutting the engine and letting the vehicle coast silently into the shadows between two towering stacks of rusted shipping containers.
I grabbed the heavy canvas rifle case from the passenger seat, unzipped it with trembling fingers, and loaded the rifle with practiced, mechanical efficiency. Years of hunting deer with my father in the Northwoods weren't something you easily forgot, even if your daily weapon of choice for the last decade had been a wooden rolling pin.
I crept through the chilling night air toward Warehouse 14, hugging the corrugated metal walls until I reached a shattered side window overlooking the cavernous interior.
Inside, the scene was a nightmare.
Roman was tied securely to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the concrete floor. His dark hair was matted with blood, his breathing heavy, but his posture remained unyielding. Standing over him with a heavy iron pipe was Victor Vance, flanked by four armed thugs holding submachine guns.
“You should have stayed in your bakery, Roman,” Victor sneered, pacing around the chair like a shark circling a wounded seal. “Baking croissants and playing family man. You lost your edge.”
Roman spat a streak of blood onto the concrete, offering a cold, bloody smirk. “My edge is just fine, Victor. You’re about to find out how sharp it is.”
Victor raised the iron pipe, preparing to bring it down across Roman’s shoulder.
I didn't hesitate.
I hoisted the Marlin rifle up onto the window sill, aligned the iron sights through the shattered glass, and aimed straight at the heavy electrical transformer box mounted on the wall ten feet above Victor’s head.
CRACK.
The rifle shot echoed through the cavernous warehouse like a bolt of lightning.
The bullet tore directly through the transformer casing. A cascade of blinding blue sparks, roaring electrical arcs, and thick black smoke erupted downward, plunging the entire warehouse into sudden, disorienting darkness, accompanied by the shriek of short-circuiting machinery.
“What the hell was that?!” one of the thugs yelled in panic, sweeping his flashlight blindly through the smoke.
“Secure the perimeter!” Victor roared, stumbling backward as sparks rained down around him.
I didn't give them time to recover. I vaulted through the broken window, hitting the concrete floor in a roll, and sprinted directly through the smoke toward the center of the room.
“Roman!” I shouted over the crackle of electricity.
“Clare? Are you out of your mind?!” Roman’s voice roared back from the darkness, laced with absolute, terrifying fury. “Get out of here!”
Too late.
A heavy hand grabbed my shoulder from behind, spinning me around. A thug with a snub-nosed revolver lunged out of the smoke, his eyes wide with adrenaline.
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Before he could raise his weapon, I swung the heavy wooden stock of my rifle upward in a brutal, sweeping arc, catching him squarely across the jaw with a sickening crunch. He dropped like a sack of wet flour, unconscious before he hit the floor.
“I told you,” I panted, leveling the rifle barrel straight at the next shadow emerging from the smoke, “nobody messes with my bakery.”
