Storm's Cage

by Mary Stone

  Clearing his throat, Ian set the bowl of chili on the stone coffee table and straightened. “You guys heard about what the Feds found out on that Kankakee County farm, didn’t you?”

  A crease formed between Scotty’s eyebrows. His pale blue eyes shifted to Ian as he slowly shook his head.

  When Ian turned his attention to Cliff, the tall man merely shrugged. “I hadn’t been following it. Why? What happened?”

  “Hey, wait.” Liam returned his spoon to the bowl of chili he held in one hand. “Kankakee County? Wasn’t that the farm the Feds busted a couple weeks ago? The one the Leóne family was running?”

  Ian’s stomach threatened to revolt. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Blowing out a sigh, Liam shook his head. “The Feds busted a pretty big trafficking ring. Something about the Leónes running that acreage with a bunch of illegals they tricked into working for free. It’s nasty shit, if you ask me.”

  The cold caress of dread clamped down on Ian’s heart. He knew that Liam had been affiliated with the Leóne family for almost his entire career with the Chicago PD, and a voice in the back of his head told him that Liam’s admonishment of the traffickers was feigned.

  This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. Ian wasn’t supposed to catch any of his brothers-in-arms in a lie or a half-truth. They were all supposed to be just as disgusted as Ian had been when he’d heard of the FBI press conference.

  Cracks began forming in the illusion Ian had held for so many years. He’d always assumed that the rest of his colleagues held to his same standards of morality, that they knew where to draw a line in the sand, and most of all, that they knew when to stop.

  Had the cracks always been there? Had Ian just been willfully ignorant this whole time? One thing was certain. Now that Ian was seeing them, he could no longer turn a blind eye.

  Anxiety had Ian’s heart playing his ribs like a xylophone. He took another sip of his soda, more to give his hands something to do than because of thirst. He might be feeling anxious, but he couldn’t let on, not now. He couldn’t spook anyone with his odd behavior, especially when talking about Leóne business.

  “Yeah, it was nasty shit. The Feds said a few days ago that the Leóne guys at that farm were running a kiddie porn ring on top of everything else they were doing.”

  Liam’s dark eyes shot open wide, but the reaction was delayed. “They were running a…a what?”

  The fires of anger crept in beside Ian’s trepidation. Maybe if any of you had actually paid attention to who you were dealing with, you wouldn’t be so surprised.

  Ian kept the thought to himself as he looked over the shell-shocked expressions of the other three detectives. With any luck, the fabric of their reality would fray as completely as his had.

  Scotty combed a hand through his mop of deep copper hair and let out a long breath. “That’s some sick shit, all right. Did the Feds bust all the guys running it?”

  Ian scooped up his bowl of chili in an attempt to look casual. “They didn’t say specifically, but it sounded like everything was a done deal. If there was anyone else involved in it, the Feds are keeping it to themselves.”

  With a snort, Scotty cracked open a blue and silver can of beer. “That sounds like something the Feds would do. They never tell us anything unless it suits them.”

  Ian swallowed a sarcastic remark. Considering that all five of them were affiliated with the Leónes in one way or another, the Feds were more than justified to keep their investigations close to the vest.

  “Yeah, well.” Ian pushed the chili around in the bowl. “I’d just heard about it, so I figured I’d mention it. I’m sure the rumor mill will be churning at full force when we get back to the precinct tomorrow.”

  The living room lapsed into silence as the four men turned their attention to the game on TV. When Scotty finally broke the spell of quiet, the topic had shifted back to baseball.

  Though Ian was glad for the reprieve, he couldn’t shake the gnawing sensation in the back of his head.

  At least one of his so-called brothers knew more than they’d let on, and this time, Ian didn’t think he could look the other way.

  This time, he had to do something.

  For the rest of the night, the Leóne family hadn’t been mentioned, but Ian had kept a close eye on his four friends. Truth be told, the only two who seemed to react to the news were Liam and Scotty. The obvious worry and disappointment on their faces had resonated with Ian, and he could only hope that the reason behind their anxiety was the same as his.

  He’d wanted answers, but he was still stuck at square one. His plan to ask his fellow detectives about the Kankakee County farm hadn’t been thought through, and he’d gleaned little to no information from the stinted discussion.

  Draping an arm over his eyes to block out the meager glow of the digital clock, Ian groaned. Though he’d headed for bed after the game ended, sleep wasn’t likely to come easy, if at all. He never slept well when Dana was out of town, and with the thoughts whirling through his head that night, he knew his eyes wouldn’t close.

  As he shifted to face the nightstand, he pulled the comforter up over his shoulders. Even if he found answers to his questions and had proof that one of his brothers-in-arms was a bottom-feeder who preyed on children, what then?

  He could conduct as thorough of an investigation as he wanted, but if he had no plan of action to follow up with, then the effort was pointless.

  Internal Affairs was out of the question. If Ian was stupid enough to bring information to the IA department, he’d go down right along with the others. And worse still, he’d be branded a rat. He’d lose everything. Dana, the kids, his home, his life.

  He couldn’t do that to them. To himself.

  But his alternative options were nonexistent. Internal Affairs or the Feds—those were the only avenues available. Both would end his life as he knew it. Dana would leave, the kids would too, and Ian would be on his own.

  Squeezing his eyes closed, he tried to ignore the stone in his stomach as he jammed his face into the pillow. That was a bridge he would cross if and when he came to it. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep. Maybe after some rest, he could come up with a better plan.

  As Ian focused on his breathing, his thoughts became more scattered and distant. To his surprise, the fog of sleep rolled up to greet him like an old friend, and tension eased away from his tired muscles.

  Before he could give himself over to the pull of unconsciousness, a faint click and a beep jerked him from the pleasant drift like a parachute halting a skydiver. Instinct sent him springing upright in his bed as his hand found the gun in the top drawer of his nightstand.

  He and his family had no pets aside from a few fish. The display on his phone showed no light to indicate a new notification. Dana or one of the kids couldn’t have come home early. They had the security code, but there was no way they would be this silent, even at this hour of the night.

  He remembered arming the security system before turning in. If someone had tried to break in through any door or window, alarms loud enough to wake the dead would blare through the house.

  Ian held his breath and strained his hearing to its limits. He could have sworn he’d heard a sound, but as the seconds ticked away in complete silence, he wondered if he was losing his mind. After all, he had been contemplating the Leóne crime family before he’d fallen asleep.

  Gritting his teeth, Ian glanced to his phone and then to the matte black Glock in his hand. Even if he suspected the sound was part of his dream, sixteen years as a cop had taught him to check and secure the house before going back to sleep. Better to be safe than sorry. He’d rather laugh at himself for jumping at shadows than find himself staring down the barrel of a mafioso’s gun.

  With a deep, silent breath to calm his racing heart, Ian swung both legs off the side of the bed. As his feet met the cool hardwood, he tightened his grip on the nine-mil and glanced around the dim room. The only light sources were the
blue glow of the alarm clock and the faint nightlight that he and Dana kept in the master bathroom.

  He snatched up a pair of sweats from the top of a wooden dresser and quickly slipped into them. In the unlikely event an intruder waited for him downstairs, he’d be damned if he was about to be caught in his skivvies. As an afterthought, he grabbed his phone and dropped the device into a pocket.

  Tightening his grip on the handgun, he padded across the floor until he reached the doorway. His vision was adjusted to the darkness, and a ruddy orange streetlight nearly blinded him as its light glared through the window at the end of the hall.

  The bathroom door to his right was open. As he replayed the sound that had ripped him from the edge of sleep, Ian was confident he hadn’t heard a door open or close. The disturbance had been faint. The click and the beep had come from downstairs.

  Satisfied that no one was lurking in wait on the second floor, Ian turned his attention to the wooden steps to his left. The house was an older building, but Ian had lived there long enough to memorize the creaky spots of the stairwell. There were plenty of nights where he’d come home from a late shift and crept through the house like a burglar to avoid waking Dana or one of the kids.

  His trip down to the landing was silent. He paused at the turn of the stairwell to listen. Just as he started for the second set of steps, there was a faint scuffle.

  He froze.

  All the carpet had been ripped out of the house ages ago, and an intruder would have a difficult time masking the sound of their footsteps on hardwood and tile…which was exactly the sound he’d just heard. He wasn’t losing his mind, though the realization offered little comfort as he prowled down the rest of the stairs.

  When the hum of the air-conditioner came to life, Ian barely stopped himself from spitting out a slew of four-letter words. His advantage was silence and surprise, but the playing field had just been leveled. Adrenaline rushed through his veins like ice water.

  He had to be fast. He had to find the intruder before the intruder found him.

  The thought of moving back upstairs to dial 911 occurred to him, but he knew there was only one reason a person would disable the security system to break into his house in the middle of the night.

  They wanted him dead. Or worse, they wanted him alive.

  In either case, he doubted he’d survive until the cavalry arrived. Not if he was unaware of his adversary’s location.

  With the barrel of the handgun leading the way, he tiptoed down the hallway and into the kitchen. The glow of streetlights cast the granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances in an eerie horror-movie-like hue.

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled to attention like the hackles of a guard dog. He hadn’t heard a sound yet, but intuition told him he wasn’t alone.

  The intruder’s shoe scuffed the ceramic tile floor, and Ian immediately spun on his heel to face the sound. As he raised the Glock, taking aim at his assailant, his eyes fell on a familiar face.

  Ian froze.

  His mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t speak.

  How could this be real? Surely, he’d fallen asleep. This was just a nightmare. It had to be.

  Even with the hooded sweatshirt shrouding his face, Ian would recognize that man in a sea of thousands.

  As his thoughts whirled and he told himself this showdown couldn’t possibly be happening, Ian’s eyes shifted to the silenced handgun clutched in the man’s gloved hands. His heart skipped more than a few beats.

  This life—Dana, his family, his career—had all been a lie. A half-truth forged in the blood of the Leóne family’s victims. He’d take that lie to his grave.

  “I’m sorry, Ian.”

  Ian’s finger tightened on the trigger, but his surprised mind wasn’t fast enough.

  The muffled pop was the last sound Ian heard.

  2

  Special Agents Amelia Storm and Zane Palmer had left the FBI’s Chicago Field Office bright and early, filled with high hopes.

  She should have known better.

  Carlo Enrico—a Leóne soldier who’d worked alongside two other men to run part of the crime family’s forced labor trafficking ring—had been moved from the Cook County Jail to The Metropolitan Correctional Center Chicago a couple days after his official indictment by a grand jury. He was scheduled to remain at MCC Chicago along with over five-hundred other inmates awaiting their day in a Federal court.

  This morning, Carlo Enrico’s new lawyer informed them that he wanted to cut a deal. Amelia had felt certain the day would be productive and had jumped at the chance to get it in writing.

  Carlo had been indicted for a laundry list of charges, due to his involvement in the child exploitation operation that his partners, Alton Dalessio and Matteo Ricci, had conducted out of the basement of a farm warehouse.

  The men had kidnapped children and young family members of the workers who tended to the massive acreage, and then they’d filmed themselves as they took advantage of the helpless kids. Details were kept silent once the FBI’s Cyber Crimes Division had taken on the investigation.

  The abductions had ostensibly served as collateral to keep the laborers in line, but Dalessio had taken an already despicable practice to an entirely new level of evil.

  Now, however, Alton Dalessio and Matteo Ricci were dead—Matteo by his own hand, and Alton by a single slug from a twelve-gauge combat shotgun. A shot that Amelia had fired, leaving her wondering if it had been justified.

  Stop it.

  She clenched her hand into a fist at her side and shoved away the thoughts. The matter was settled in the eyes of the Bureau and the law, and ruminating over the fateful moment wouldn’t bring her any sense of resolution.

  With Alton and Matteo dead, Carlo Enrico was left to shoulder the blame for the shady operations at the Kankakee County farm.

  Carlo had sworn that he hadn’t touched any of the kids in that warehouse basement. He claimed he’d only cooperated with Alton and Matteo out of fear for his life.

  Amelia didn’t buy a single one of Carlo’s lies.

  She’d learned over the past few weeks that he had a penchant for sexual assault. She trusted him as far as she could throw him, and based on his broad-shouldered, muscular frame, that wasn’t far. Amelia was in good physical shape, exercised regularly, and practiced a variety of hand-to-hand combat techniques, but shot-putting grown men wasn’t part of her repertoire.

  Though MCC Chicago was a towering twenty-three stories of solid beige concrete, Amelia and Zane had only been as high up as the third floor of the triangular building.

  Not even Federal agents were allowed to traverse the veritable fortress without a corrections officer to chaperone, so a black-clad officer—Cole, his badge said—met them outside the interview room door.

  “We need to meet with the warden as quickly as possible.”

  According to Carlo’s new lawyer, a direct trip to the warden was the fastest way to have their soon-to-be informant placed in the jail’s protective custody. There, Carlo would be away from the general population, which included inmates who might have been affiliated with either the Leóne or D’Amato family.

  Inmates who would want Carlo dead if they knew he’d cooperated with the Feds.

  Though Carlo had changed lawyers and kept his intent to make a deal as quiet as possible, word of his betrayal would inevitably reach the Leónes. If Amelia and Zane didn’t move him out of gen-pop soon, the only witness who could identify the fourth man in Alton Dalessio’s child exploitation ring would be in grave danger.

  To complicate matters, the man they sought, the unidentified man from the videos they’d recovered from the warehouse basement, was a detective in the Chicago Police Department.

  Scratching the side of his scruffy face, the corrections officer raised his arm to check the time. “Warden’s in a meeting right now.” With a quick jerk of his head, Cole gestured for them to follow. “I’ll take you back to the lobby while you wait. The warden’s office
is just off the lobby before the security checkpoint. He ought to be back in about thirty, if that works for the both of you.”

  Pushing a piece of dark brown hair from her eyes, Amelia bit back a curse. Thirty minutes in a place like this could mean the difference between life and death. But what would cursing the CO do to help their cause? “That’s fine. We’ll wait.”

  Cole turned to lead them down a hall and to a door Amelia assumed could withstand the force of a nuclear blast. Their footsteps echoed off the concrete like the walls of a tomb.

  Cole offered a short greeting to the corrections officer manning the metal detector on the other side of the sturdy door, but Amelia and Zane remained silent. In the next room, a corrections officer stationed behind a pane of bullet-proof glass returned their service weapons.

  By the time they finally reached the horseshoe-shaped desk at the back of a drab waiting area, Amelia was sure their half hour must have already elapsed. To her chagrin, however, a clock mounted to the gray drywall told her they still had another twenty-five minutes to go.

  Rapping his knuckles against the sturdy wooden desk, Cole shifted his green eyes to a middle-aged fellow dressed in the same Bureau of Prisons uniform. Based on the man’s portly stature, his duties were primarily administrative.

  Waving a hand at Amelia and Zane, Cole tilted his chin at his companion. “These two are here to see the warden when he gets back from his meeting.”

  With a smile that exuded a grandfatherly sort of charm, the older corrections officer produced a clipboard as Cole offered a departing nod. His badge introduced him as Artie.

  The corrections officer scanned the paper before he returned his gaze to Amelia and Zane. “Agents, good morning. Feel free to have a seat if you’d like to wait in here. Otherwise,” he pushed himself to his feet and pointed to a set of tinted glass double doors at the other end of the room, “there’s a coffee shop across the street if you need to grab some caffeine. It’s just a chain, but it sure beats the sludge they’ve got for us in here.”