Chapter 64 Chicago, 1927—Clay
The way Tavis and Rick treated Clay frustrated him.
It wasn’t cruel or dismissive, but it carried that unmistakable weight of condescension.
This kind came from older men who’d seen war and thought they understood the world better for it.
They didn’t see Clay as an equal—and he knew why.
He was younger, and he’d never served in the military.
He could change that. He could enlist and join Patrick in the Marines, earning the respect uniformed men accorded one another.
But deep down, Clay knew his independence would never survive military life.
Orders weren’t in his nature. He preferred the battles fought with questions and ink, not rifles.
For Patrick, being a soldier wasn’t about duty—it was about honor. Among the MacKlennas, the title warrior was sacred, the highest praise one could earn. Not a Pulitzer, not a byline on the front page, not even a Triple Crown winner—though that last one might come close.
All Clay could do was act responsibly, prove his worth through action.
He’d taken risks neither Tavis nor Rick would ever dream of—scaling sheer cliffs in the Andes, crossing isolated glaciers in Alaska, chasing stories in places even mercenaries avoided.
He’d faced avalanches, starvation, and the solitude that gnawed at a man’s sanity.
But no one had ever shot at him. He’d never looked down the barrel of an enemy gun.
If he wanted their respect, he’d have to earn it. And not through bravado—through results. Clay was an investigative journalist, and a damn good one. There was a story here at the racetrack. He could feel it humming beneath his skin, danger pulsing through him like a second heartbeat.
Ring Man’s face haunted him because he recognized it.
That was why he’d ducked out earlier. The man’s thin mustache might fool the casual eye, but not Clay’s.
He’d seen him at the Sunset Café—seated beside Al Capone.
That connection could only mean one thing.
Capone and the Illuminati were in business together.
Clay intended to find out what kind of business it was.
When he’d left Tavis and Rick, he hadn’t gone far. He’d wanted to see what kind of attention they drew, if anyone in the crowd was watching. It hadn’t taken long for Ring Man to approach them. The conversation that followed wasn’t casual—it was deliberate. Calculated.
Clay scanned the crowd and picked out two men right away. They pretended to study their racing cards, but their side glances told another story. He couldn’t make out whether they wore the telltale ring, but he didn’t need confirmation. His gut told him enough.
He didn’t watch the race. He watched the watchers.
His pencil moved steadily, sketching faces, postures, tells—the subtle choreography of deceit.
When the race ended, Rick’s grin split wide across his face, but Ring Man’s expression was sour.
Clay didn’t need a transcript to read what happened.
Rick won a bet, and Ring Man lost one he couldn’t afford.
Since no money had changed hands, Ring Man would need to settle up elsewhere—and fast. For the MacKlennas, gambling was a competition, not a compulsion. They chased the thrill, not the payoff. But for men like Ring Man, losing was dangerous business.
Clay closed his journal and slipped into the crowd, tall enough to keep the man in his sights. His height worked both for and against him, though, so he tugged his cap lower to shade his face.
If his phone worked, he’d text Rick—warn him. If he had JC’s strange telepathic gift, he’d send the warning straight into his friend’s head. But he had neither, and the truth pressed cold against his ribs. He was on his own.
Ring Man stopped near a vendor’s stand to speak to a thin man with greasy hair plastered to his forehead. After a few quick words, Ring Man handed over a couple of bills and gestured toward Rick and Tavis. Clay’s stomach sank. It looked like he was putting a tail on them.
He lifted his pencil and sketched the man in quick strokes—sharp bones, nervous eyes—while keeping one eye on Ring Man. When the exchange ended, Ring Man started up the steps into the grandstand.
Clay followed.
Halfway up, Ring Man shoved past a cluster of spectators—some standing, others slumped on splintered benches, paper cups of near beer in their hands.
The smell of sweat, tobacco, and sausage hung thick in the afternoon air.
Clay climbed another couple of rows, weaving through the bodies until he was directly behind his mark.
There was no room on the bench, but Ring Man solved that easily. With a flick of his hand—more a command than a request—he waved at a man as if brushing aside an insect. The man moved. Ring Man sat down.
Next to Al Capone.
Clay froze. A jolt ran through him. Who the hell was this guy? Nobody—no one—sat beside Capone unless they belonged there.
He studied their body language, trying to connect the dots. It didn’t make sense. Capone had been raised Catholic, married in a church, and even kept his mother’s rosary on his nightstand. The Illuminati despised religion and rejected everything holy. So what business could tie them together?
There was only one answer.
Anything illegal.
Capone reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. His words, low and stern, carried just far enough for Clay to catch the tone if not the content. Then he passed the envelope to Ring Man.
Clay’s hand went instinctively to his phone. No signal. Again.
“Damn,” he muttered.
Ring Man worked his way back down the row and headed for the steps.
Clay hurried after him, arriving on the ground just as Ring Man met another man.
Clay caught his breath and opened his journal, sketching fast—the angle of the ringed hand, the tilt of the chin, the guarded posture of men doing something unethical.
The two leaned in, spoke quietly, and then turned toward the barns.
Clay looked back once more for Rick and Tavis. Still no sign. For men of their size, they should’ve been easy to spot in that sea of hats and dust. Worry edged into his thoughts, but he shoved it aside. Quitting wasn’t an option. Not now. He had to see this through.
He slipped into the flow of spectators heading toward the barns. If anyone stopped him, he’d tell them he was looking to buy the horse that won the fifth race. No one would question that.
The two Illuminati men entered the barn, striding down the muddy aisle with the confidence of men who knew they wouldn’t be followed. Clay waited until they disappeared inside, then ducked through the doorway, the air immediately shifting from open dust to the thick, close smell of hay and horses.
He moved quietly, boots squelching in mud, and ducked behind a stack of hay bales.
He nudged the top one just enough to peer through the gap.
A cross breeze whispered through the barn, lifting the layered scents of sweet hay, oiled leather, aged wood, and damp earth—horse and dust and time, the air almost alive.
Clay steadied his hand on the straw, eyes fixed on the men ahead. Whatever they were planning, this was where it began.
The men grumbled as they tromped through the slick aisle, mud clinging to their soles.
At the last stall, Ring Man exploded—snatching the jockey mid-motion and hauling him backward, an arm crushing across his throat.
The barn’s low murmur shattered under Ring Man’s voice, sharp with fury.
Clay caught only fragments—two words that burned straight through him.
You.
Lose.
The jockey fought wildly, elbows slamming back, boots skidding in the muck, but Ring Man only tightened his grip. He wrenched the man’s arm high and hard behind him. A strangled gasp tore loose.
Clay went rigid, his own body locking in reflex, every muscle braced as if the violence might leap the distance and take him too. Intervening would mean exposure—and exposure meant never getting home.
Then it happened.
A crack—dry, raw, unmistakable.
Bone giving way.
The jockey screamed, a sound so piercing it seemed to rip at the rafters, the horses shifting and snorting in terror as the echo tore through the barn.
His stomach lurched. He wanted to move, to shout, to stop it—but fear rooted him in place. His hands trembled so badly that he could barely hold his pencil. Still, he sketched, strokes uneven and desperate, needing to record the truth even as it turned his insides cold.
Ring Man let go, shoving the jockey backward.
The young man’s skull struck the stall door with a sickening thud before he crumpled into the straw.
The startled horse reared, nickering wildly.
The lead rope snapped loose, and the animal bolted down the aisle, hooves hammering the ground like gunfire before disappearing into daylight.
Ring Man sneered, glanced down at the broken man, and kicked him in the head. Then he cursed under his breath—something about his boots—and stalked out of the barn with his companion.
Clay was left shaking, sweat running cold down his neck. His legs barely obeyed him when he tried to move. He had to get out—before someone found him here, before that broken body on the floor became a corpse he couldn’t explain.
He staggered toward the exit, his boots slipping in the mud. Should he call for help? No. If the track officials caught him, they’d demand answers—a name, an origin, a reason. And he couldn’t give them any. Not the truth, anyway.
Instinct took over. He hurried through the shadows until he was a safe distance from the barns. Behind him, a commotion erupted—voices raised, sharp calls for a doctor. He shoved his sketchbook deep into his jacket, already feeling the weight of what he’d witnessed pressing on his chest.