Chapter 4 - The Ghost of the Syndicate
By the third day, the fever had finally broken.
Marcus sat up on the edge of the cot, stripped to his waist, thick white bandages wrapped tightly around his midsection. He was a man built like an iron beam, covered in old scars from his early days on the streets, but the three days of fever had left him leaner, sharper, and far more dangerous.
Lily sat at the wooden crate across from him, cleaning the action of the captured nine-millimeter pistol with an oil-soaked rag. Bear lay at her feet, gnawing on a large beef bone.
On the crate between them lay a small, black USB flash drive that Lily had pulled from her pocket.
"What's that?" Marcus asked, his deep voice regaining its resonant, commanding tone.
"It's my father's ledger," Lily replied, her small fingers reassembling the pistol with mechanical speed. "Before Victor’s crew burned the pharmacy, my dad backed up all the extortion records from our district. Names, dates, payoff amounts, and the names of the dirty cops who handle Victor's muscle."
Marcus reached out, his long fingers taking the small plastic drive. "This is enough to put thirty of my old lieutenants in federal prison for the rest of their lives."
"I don't want them in prison, Marcus," Lily said, looking up at him. "I want them gone."
Marcus let out a low, dry chuckle, though there was no humor in his eyes. "You're nine years old, Lily. You talk like a warlord."
"When you lose everything at nine, you don't stay nine," she answered simply. "You grow up in five minutes."
A soft, rhythmic knock suddenly echoed from the steel hatch above the steps.
Three slow knocks. Two fast ones. A code.
Bear’s ears shot up instantly, but he didn't growl.
Lily stood up, tucking the reassembled gun into her belt. "That's Tommy. My contact."
She walked up the short flight of metal steps and pulled open the hatch. A young man in a worn leather jacket, drenched in rain, slipped into the room. He was thin, nervously chewing his thumbnail, his eyes darting wildly around the small space until they landed on Marcus sitting on the cot.
Tommy froze, his jaw dropping. "Jesus... it's really him. The rumors on the street are true. Marcus Cole is alive."
"What's happening out there, Tommy?" Marcus demanded, stepping off the cot. He stood at his full height, looming over the young informant like a mountain.
"It's a bloodbath, Mr. Cole," Tommy stammered, swallowing hard. "Victor took over the main estate on North Shore yesterday. He told the family you were killed by a rival crew from Detroit. He’s taking a vote tonight at the Grand Hotel to solidify his seat as boss."
"A vote?" Marcus sneered, his lip curling in disdain. "Victor always was a politician. He can't run an empire without asking thirty men for permission first."
"He's got fifty armed men securing the top floor of the hotel, sir," Tommy warned. "He's put a two-million-dollar bounty on your head. Every hitman from here to Saint Louis is looking for you."
Marcus walked over to the corner of the room where Lily had stacked his dry, washed coat and clothes. He pulled on his black silk shirt, buttoned it over his bandages, and adjusted his heavy leather shoulder holster.
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"Fifty men," Marcus murmured, checking the magazine of his reclaimed weapon. He turned to look at the nine-year-old girl and her massive black dog.
"Fifty men isn't an army, Tommy," Marcus said softly, a dark, lethal smile spreading across his face. "It's just a target rich environment."
