Chapter 21 - The Canal
The tunnel was cold, reeking of stagnant water and damp limestone. Dr. Evans held a small medical penlight, its narrow beam cutting through the gloom as we moved as fast as our legs could carry us.
Lily was burning up. Even through the thick wool blanket, I could feel the heat radiating from her tiny body. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her eyelashes fluttering against pale, sunken cheeks.
"Her core temperature is climbing," Evans warned in a hushed whisper, his fingers resting on the pulse point of her neck. "The graft has taken, but her body is in acute shock. If we don't get her into a sterile, climate-controlled environment with broad-spectrum antibiotics within two hours, septic shock will set in."
"There's a safehouse," Vincent said, never breaking his brisk stride through the dark corridor. "An industrial loft off the south branch of the Chicago River. Completely off the grid. Clean room, medical equipment, sealed air filtration."
"How far?" I asked, my breath hitching as we splashed through ankle-deep water.
"The tunnel ends in an old industrial drainage pipe behind the scrap yards," he replied. "I keep a reinforced boat docked under the culvert. Twenty minutes downriver."
After what felt like an eternity of blind stumbling through the dark, the air grew colder and fresher. The smell of lake water and diesel exhaust replaced the stench of wet earth.
Vincent kicked through a rusted iron grate, stepping out onto a slick wooden platform tucked beneath a massive concrete outflow pipe.
Tied to the pilings was a sleek, matte-black military interceptor boat, completely invisible beneath the shadow of the crumbling pier.
Vincent laid Lily gently onto the cushioned bench inside the covered cabin, stripping off his ruined tactical vest before pulling a thermal survival blanket over her. He checked her pulse, his face tightening with an anguish he couldn't hide.
"She's strong, Claire," he said, turning to look at me in the dim light of the cabin. "She has your heart. She’s going to make it."
Before I could answer, the night sky above the tree line behind us flashed orange.
Looking back across the water toward the estate, a massive plume of black smoke was billowing into the dawn sky. The center of the Moretti estate had collapsed into a smoldering crater of rubble, but sirens were already screaming in the distance—the sound of dozens of city emergency vehicles racing toward the blaze.
And then, cutting through the sirens, came the rhythmic, heavy thrum of a helicopter blade.
A sleek black chopper rose above the smoke, circling the perimeter of the destroyed grounds. Mounted on its side was a high-intensity searchlight, sweeping the tree lines, the roads—and then pivoting toward the river.
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"Dante survived," I breathed, my hand flying to my mouth.
"He wasn't on the main floor," Vincent said, his jaw tightening into iron. He jumped into the cockpit, flipping the silent ignition switch. The twin inboard engines hummed to life with a low, muffled rumble. "He’s got air superiority. Hold on to Lily."
