Chapter 7 - Secrets in the Floorboards
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The South Side of Chicago looked Bleak beneath the November drizzle.
Row houses with peeling paint and boarded-up windows lined 47th Street like decayed teeth.
An unmarked black sedan pulled into the overgrown gravel driveway behind a weathered two-story colonial.
Emily stared at the porch where she had learned to ride a bicycle twenty years ago.
The wooden steps were rotted, covered in dead leaves and broken beer bottles.
"Wait here until my men secure the perimeter," Richard ordered, pulling a compact firearm from his shoulder holster.
"I'm not waiting in the car like a frightened child," Emily said, opening her door before he could stop her.
Richard cursed under his breath, stepping out into the cold drizzle right behind her.
Two of his soldiers stood guard by the broken fence line, scanning the gray rooftops with assault rifles concealed beneath long coats.
Richard kicked open the sagging back door, the wood splintering with a sharp crack.
The smell of damp mold, old wallpaper, and childhood memories rushed over Emily like a tidal wave.
She walked through the ruined kitchen, running her fingers over the faded yellow wallpaper her mother had chosen decades ago.
"Where was his study?" Richard asked, his eyes sweeping the darkened hallway.
"Upstairs," Emily whispered, her voice catching in her throat.
"At the end of the hall."
They climbed the creaking staircase, Richard staying half a step ahead of her, his weapon raised.
The study was a ruin of shattered glass and water-damaged ceiling tiles.
Emily walked straight to the built-in bookshelf that had once held her father's criminal law manuals.
She dropped to her knees, ignoring the damp dust clinging to her jeans.
She counted three floorboards out from the lower baseboard and pressed her thumb firmly against a knot in the pine wood.
The board popped up with a dry groan.
Beneath the subfloor lay a rusted steel lockbox wrapped in heavy green oilcloth.
"He kept his service revolver and personal journals here," Emily whispered, lifting the heavy box out into the light.
Richard knelt beside her, his broad shoulder pressing warmly against hers.
He used a pocket knife to pry open the rusted latch.
Inside lay three microcassette tapes, a handwritten leather notebook, and a gold police shield bearing the name David Carter.
Emily traced the embossed gold letters of her father's badge, a sob catching in her chest.
"He wrote down every date, every payoff, and every dirty politician who took Moretti's cash," Richard said, skimming the dense handwriting.
"This doesn't just clear your father's name, Emily."
"This destroys Julian Moretti's entire political protection racket."
A sudden whistling sound shattered the silence of the room.
Richard’s instincts reacted before Emily could even comprehend the noise.
"Down!" he roared, throwing his entire weight over her body.
The upstairs window exploded into a million shards of glittering glass as high-caliber sniper rounds ripped through the wooden walls.
Splinters rained over them like shrapnel.
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Outside, tires screeched against the wet pavement, followed by the terrifying, rhythmic chatter of automatic gunfire.
Julian Moretti’s strike team had arrived.
