Chapter 66 Chicago, 1927—Rick
Rick took the first watch. The full moon cast a pale glow through the windows, enough light for him to see.
His eyes had adjusted to the half-dark. But his mind felt fogged, hungry for clarity—sunshine, a flashlight, even stadium bulbs—anything that could illuminate the puzzle pieces that refused to fit no matter how he turned them.
The last time his thoughts had felt this tangled had been after the IED hit his Humvee.
He had replayed each second of that explosion until it hollowed him out.
Why him? Why did he live when his buddies didn’t?
Something about tonight hit the same nerve—the sense of surviving something he still didn’t understand.
He needed Kenzie, the puzzle master, to help with this one. Everything hinged on the piece that wouldn’t lock into place. Was Skye compromised?
Had the Illuminati found leverage? Had they forced her to cooperate? Or had she chosen to help them for her career, or loyalty to family? If she had, what proof could they find—proof that left no doubt at all?
If Skye were dirty, could Remy forgive her? And if he did, would the rest of the clan ever trust her again? Probably not. Too much damage had been done already. Rick’s chest ached for his friend. What would Remy do if the worst turned out to be true? Fight for her anyway, or walk away?
Rick poured another cup of bitter coffee and sat where he could watch the front windows.
Two Glocks rested on the table beside him, extra magazines lined up like soldiers waiting for orders.
Outside, the moonlight stretched silver across the quiet street.
Inside, the only thing that moved was the shadow of the clock pendulum. What would Alistair decide?
If Rick had to bet—and betting came natural—he’d put money on Alistair staying behind. The man might worry about Skye, but starting over without Sheena? That kind of grief stripped the will to begin again.
Rick thought of his own father—Pops—who hadn’t given up after losing the love of his life.
What made the difference? Faith? Family?
Children and grandchildren who refused to let him quit had surrounded Pops.
Alistair didn’t have that kind of net. He had Skye—and a few loyal friends—but not the big, noisy safety of clan and kin.
The MacKlenna family could change that. If only Alistair would let them.
Across the room, Tavis and Clay lay on pallets. They’d chosen spots away from the windows. The duffels—medicine, scuba gear, computers—were stacked within arm’s reach. If they had to bolt, they could grab everything in a single sweep.
Still, Rick couldn’t shake the feeling pressing at the back of his neck. Bowes was out there. And Bowes was the type who didn’t forgive embarrassment. Men like him answered humiliation with blood.
Rick’s gaze drifted toward the street again. He’d seen the man’s kind before—in alleys, in war zones, on the edge of every deal gone wrong. Bowes wouldn’t rest until he got back what he thought he’d lost, money or pride. And both were worth killing for.
Rick sipped his coffee, the taste harsher now, and settled deeper into the shadows. The night was quiet—but it was the quiet that came before something broke.
Around two a.m., movement outside pulled Rick from his thoughts.
Alistair’s silhouette crossed the street and disappeared into his house.
A light flickered on inside, then another, then darkness again.
Rick imagined him sitting beside Sheena’s body, speaking to her in whispers—just as Rick and his siblings had done while keeping vigil beside their mother’s casket.
A voice broke the silence. “It’s my turn,” Tavis said. “Anything going on? My internal clock says it’s time to get up.”
“You can sleep a while longer,” Rick said without turning.
“I’m awake, and you need rest. Did Alistair come back?”
“Just did,” Rick said.
Tavis joined him at the table, pouring coffee that hissed faintly as it filled the cup. “You think he was at the funeral home all this time?”
Rick shrugged. “Maybe. Sheena was sick for years—it wouldn’t surprise me if he sat with her for one more night. You heard his voice on the tape, but you didn’t see his face. No bottle or woman could touch that kind of pain.”
Tavis studied his cup. “Vikings drank plenty, too. It only numbs you long enough to make the grief worse later.”
“Only time brings healing,” Rick muttered.
“That’s a myth. Time’s no cure—just distance. Healing takes work. Otherwise, the wound festers.” Tavis gave a tired half-smile. “My counselor’s words, not mine.”
Rick chuckled softly. “Mine said the same.”
A flash of light streaked across the parlor wall—a reflection off the black Ford parked across the street. It shifted, jerking his pulse hard. “They’re coming,” he whispered.
Tavis edged beside him. “Where?”
“Behind that car.” Rick slipped into the shadows, crossed to Clay, and crouched beside him. He pressed one finger to his lips. “Trouble.”
Clay blinked awake instantly and rolled up to his haunches. “What do you want me to do?”
Rick handed him a Glock. “Upstairs. You’ll have height and a sightline to the back hall. You’re wearing your vest?”
“I don Kevlar like underwear.” Clay checked the weapon and slid in a full magazine. “Capone’s men shredded Skye’s place with Tommy guns. These Glocks are peashooters.”
“Careful—you’ll insult peashooters.”
Clay grinned thinly. “This feels personal, not a firefight. Bowes will try to sneak inside, catch us flatfooted.”
“If they hose the front with Thompsons, we’re gone,” Rick said. “If it’s a few, we take prisoners. If you can’t get down in time, make a lateral jump.”
“How will you know?”
“I’ll smell the fog, even through gunpowder.” Rick clapped his shoulder. “Be careful. Marcelle would gut me if you got killed on my watch.”
“I’ll buy you time if you need a distraction—shoot out the chandelier.”
“Just don’t drop it on us.” Rick’s tone hardened. “Remember—if you shoot, shoot to stop the threat. No trick shots.”
Clay drew a deep breath and nodded. “Message received.”
Rick hated how steady the kid sounded. You never truly forgot first blood, and Clay hadn’t crossed that line yet. But war didn’t care about comfort. Neither could he.
“Where will you be?” Clay asked.
“In here,” Rick said. “Opposite sides of the doorway. I’ll take the left. The clock gives cover. Soon as I see them, I’ll signal position and count.”
“Old man,” Tavis said, snapping a magazine into place, the metallic click sharp in the quiet, “it’s not going down that way. I’ll take the left. Quicker hands.” He glanced up, eyes steady. “You talk first and shoot later—I don’t.”
“There’s no need for killing,” Rick said.
He kept his voice level, even as his gaze swept the room, measuring angles and distances—the hallway choke point, the fireplace stone, the window’s line of sight.
In his head, every piece of furniture shifted into either cover or liability.
“We bring them back for David and Braham to question. Keep your brooches open and ready if we need to jump.”
“What if they come through the dining room?” Clay asked from the stairs, one hand resting on the banister.
“They’ll make enough noise to wake the dead,” Rick said without looking.
“What about the house staff?”
“They’ll hole up in their rooms.”
Clay hesitated. “What if Bowes is with them?”
Rick exhaled through his teeth. “What’s with the interrogation? You think I’m the Wizard?”
Clay shrugged. “Just clarifying the plan.”
“Plan on all hell breaking loose.” Rick caught himself, rolled his shoulders once, and lowered his voice. “We’ll take Bowes alive if we can. David can deal with whatever’s left.”
He glanced up at the staircase—Clay was in position. Then Rick slipped behind the wall that divided the parlor and foyer. Across the archway, Tavis crouched beside the grandfather clock and gave a thumbs-up.
For a stretched second, the house seemed to hold its breath.
Then—a sound. Click.
The neat metallic scratch of a lock pick. In the heavy silence, it thundered, drumming through Rick’s chest. His heartbeat rose to meet it. He whispered a prayer, felt the old combat calm wash over him. Because the next sound would be the door.
The door creaked open, and the hard click of boot heels echoed on the floorboards. If they’d somehow missed all the earlier sounds, they couldn’t miss this. The intruders might as well have shouted, We’re here!
Tavis flashed three fingers, then gestured—left arm extended, right arm pulled back. Rick understood instantly. Three men. One of them was Bowes.
Tavis counted off—one, two, three—and they moved as one. Rick swung around the corner just as Tavis barked, “Drop ’em—now!”
Three guns hit the floorboards almost simultaneously, but Rick knew better. No seasoned thug stepped into enemy territory unarmed. If those were their only weapons, they were idiots.
“Clay—search these assholes,” Rick ordered.
Clay thundered down the staircase, Glock in hand. He passed his weapon to Tavis. “Hold this.”
The momentary shift drew Bowes’s attention. He lunged lightning fast.
Rick pivoted, but not fast enough. Bowes’s fist clipped the edge of his chin—jarring enough to rattle his teeth, glancing but effective.
He drove forward, slamming another punch into Rick’s gut.
The vest caught most of it, but the air went out of him in a choking gasp.
For one nauseating instant, his body went rigid, useless.
The gun slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.
All around him, chaos detonated—wood splintering, glass shattering, the violent percussion of fists meeting flesh. Tavis and Clay were fighting off Bowes’s men, but Rick’s entire world had shrunk to the blur of the man in front of him.