Chapter 97 - The Council of Ash
While the underground complex smoldered, seventy floors above the snow-swept streets of Chicago, the grand penthouse of the historic Drake Hotel had been turned into a forward command post.
Jonathan Vance stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, sipping black coffee from a bone china cup. His bespoke suit was stained with soot, and a small cut on his temple was freshly bandaged, but his composure had completely returned. Behind him, seated around an antique mahogany table, were four individuals who represented the hidden machinery of the American Midwest: the state’s deputy attorney general, the regional director of federal intelligence, the chief executive of the third-largest commercial bank in the country, and the commander of the state national guard’s tactical reserve.
"The vault was fused," Jonathan said without looking back at them. "Moretti used Marcus Ward’s failsafe. We lost eight operators."
"Jonathan, this has gone too far," the bank executive whispered, sweating through his silk shirt. "The blackout is already making national headlines. Wall Street futures are plummeting. If the federal reserve traces the liquidity freeze back to our shell accounts—"
Jonathan turned slowly, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. He placed his coffee cup onto the saucer with a sharp, delicate clink that made the banker flinch.
"If we do not capture Emma Ward and secure the master cipher by sunrise," Jonathan said in a dead, quiet voice, "your bank will not exist by noon tomorrow. Neither will your family’s trust funds, your offshore estates, or your immunity agreements. You agreed to sit on this Council because you wanted the wealth of kings. Kings do not panic when a candle flickers out."
The commander of the tactical reserve cleared his throat. "The Moretti Tower is holding. Their private security is military-grade. And our spotters at the lakefront report that the auxiliary blast doors near the river have just been detonated from the inside. Vincent is on the surface."
A dark, cold smile crept back across Jonathan Vance’s face. "Of course he is. He is a Moretti. He believes in honor, blood, and territory. He will go straight to the Gold Coast to protect the old woman."
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Jonathan walked over to the table and tapped the ivory head of his walking cane directly onto a laminated tactical map of the Gold Coast.
"Let him reach the estate," Jonathan commanded. "Do not engage him on the expressway. Let him enter the gates. Let him believe he has saved his grandmother. And then... we drop the perimeter and turn that entire four-acre compound into a graveyard."
