Chapter 6 - I HAD TO CHOOSE BETWEEN KILLING VINCENT AND SAVING EIGHT WOMEN I HAD NEVER MET
Vincent made the choice simple.
He called at 11:06 on a Tuesday morning.
“I have the last eight.”
My entire body went cold.
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“That word from you means nothing.”
“You want them?”
“Yes.”
“Then come alone.”
Hayes was sitting across from me.
The call was on speaker with legal authorization.
Vincent knew someone might listen.
He didn’t care.
“Old rail yard in Gary.”
he said.
“Warehouse C.”
“Midnight.”
“No police.”
I looked at Hayes.
He shook his head once.
Of course.
Vincent continued:
“You come armed.”
“Like old days.”
“You and me.”
“You want revenge.”
“I want women.”
He laughed.
“No.”
“You want me.”
Both.
I did not deny.
“What happens if I don’t come?”
“Maybe they move.”
“Maybe one gets hurt.”
“Maybe all.”
Hayes wrote something:
STALL.
I ignored him slightly.
“What do you want besides meeting?”
“A route.”
“Out of country.”
“No.”
“Then they move.”
“You don’t have eight women.”
Silence.
I gambled.
“You have photographs.”
“You have names.”
“You want me emotional.”
Vincent chuckled.
“Gabriel taught you skepticism from grave.”
“Good.”
Then a sound came through phone.
A woman crying.
My jaw tightened.
Vincent said:
“One says her name is Marisol.”
Hayes’s face changed.
One of missing names.
Real.
“You have them.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“Plane.”
“Cash.”
“Passport.”
“Your word.”
I almost laughed.
“My word?”
“You used to have one.”
That hurt differently.
“Send proof of life.”
“One photo.”
“Current date.”
“All eight if you claim eight.”
Vincent hung up.
Seven minutes later, image arrived.
Eight women.
Held in what looked like warehouse office.
Newspaper from that morning.
Marisol among them.
Hayes said:
“We move.”
I stood.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“He asked for me.”
“You are not tactical asset.”
“I know building network.”
“You don’t know this warehouse.”
“I know Vincent.”
Hayes stared.
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t be there.”
Mara entered.
“He’s right.”
I hated consensus.
Then Hayes said:
“We can use you.”
“How?”
“Controlled communication.”
“No hero act.”
“No gun.”
I almost smiled.
“You enjoy saying that.”
“Very much.”
Plan was legal.
Structured.
Frustrating.
I would appear to negotiate transport through a secured video call once tactical teams were positioned.
Vincent wanted escape.
We would use that.
My jet? No.
A decoy aircraft plan.
Transportation documents.
Time.
Enough for teams to locate precise section of rail complex.
I followed instructions.
For four hours.
Then everything went wrong anyway.
Vincent moved early.
A tracker on one of shell vehicles showed convoy leaving before midnight.
Hayes swore.
“Where?”
“Southbound.”
“They know.”
“How?”
No answer.
Leak.
Again.
Not Moretti this time.
Somewhere inside task force or local law enforcement.
Vincent had been right.
People with badges.
The convoy split.
Three vehicles.
One carried women.
One decoy.
One Vincent.
Maybe.
Hayes’s team moved.
I watched from command room.
Helpless.
My old enemy.
Helplessness.
I almost left twice.
Mara blocked door second time.
“Sit down.”
“I can help.”
“You can ruin it.”
“My people can—”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Your people are how Vincent hid.”
That stopped me.
Screens showed vehicles.
Radio traffic.
Then gunfire somewhere off-camera.
My fists clenched.
One vehicle stopped.
Women recovered.
Four.
Only four.
Second vehicle empty.
Third disappeared beneath highway camera gap.
Vincent with four remaining.
Marisol among recovered.
Alive.
Hayes slammed table.
Then phone rang.
Vincent.
“You cheated.”
I answered.
“So did you.”
“You brought federal dogs.”
“You moved women.”
“Same old Dante.”
“No.”
“You expected same.”
Silence.
Then Vincent said:
“I have four.”
“Come yourself now.”
A location.
Old meatpacking plant on south side.
I knew it.
One of Antonio’s properties.
Of course.
Hayes whispered:
“Keep him talking.”
I said:
“You killed Elena.”
“Yes.”
Finally.
No euphemism.
“You killed Claire.”
“She was not supposed to be there.”
“Neither was Elena.”
“No.”
“Does that make you feel better?”
My vision darkened.
Vincent laughed.
“You want me angry.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“You finally learned one trick.”
Then I heard another voice.
Antonio.
My uncle.
“Dante.”
I stopped.
He was with Vincent.
Not under surveillance anymore.
He had fled his home thirty minutes earlier through service tunnel police had not known existed.
A Moretti tunnel.
Of course.
Antonio said:
“This has gone too far.”
I laughed.
“Three years ago.”
“I never wanted Elena dead.”
“You let operation continue.”
“Dante—”
“Claire was five.”
Silence.
He whispered:
“I know.”
“No.”
My voice broke.
“You know her age.”
“You don’t know what six hours feels like holding your child while machines keep her body warm.”
The command room became still.
“I do.”
Antonio cried.
“I have lived with it.”
“Good.”
“Then surrender.”
Vincent cursed in background.
Antonio said:
“If I do, Vincent kills women.”
Vincent laughed.
“Family still bargaining.”
I understood.
They were no longer united.
Pressure.
Good.
“Uncle.”
I used word intentionally.
Antonio went quiet.
“Bring the women outside.”
“Walk away from Vincent.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“Maybe.”
Old me would promise protection absolutely.
I could not.
“But task force can take you.”
“Alive.”
“You testify.”
“You spend rest of life answering for what you did.”
Antonio breathed.
“That is your offer?”
“No money?”
“No plane?”
“No Moretti protection?”
“No.”
Then:
“But Claire’s killer doesn’t get to decide your last act.”
Silence.
Vincent shouted something.
A struggle.
Gunshot.
My body jerked.
Call remained open.
Then Antonio’s voice:
“Go!”
Women screaming.
Hayes moved.
“Tactical go.”
Radio exploded.
I heard chaos through phone.
Vincent cursing.
Antonio groaning.
Another shot.
Then line cut.
I stood frozen.
Minutes stretched.
Then Hayes received update.
“Four hostages out.”
My knees weakened.
“All?”
“All four.”
“Vincent?”
“Running inside.”
“Antonio?”
“Down.”
“Alive?”
“Unknown.”
I moved toward door.
Hayes blocked.
“Stay.”
“He’s my uncle.”
“And armed scene.”
I hated him.
Stayed.
Twelve minutes later:
Vincent captured.
Alive.
Shot in leg.
Antonio alive with chest wound.
Transported.
All eight missing women recovered that night.
Every one.
That should have been triumph.
It wasn’t.
Rescue does not erase what happened before recovery.
But it mattered.
At 3:40 a.m., Hayes sat beside me.
“Vincent asked whether you were coming.”
“What did you say?”
“That you were where you were supposed to be.”
I laughed bitterly.
“He’ll hate that.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then Hayes handed me Antonio’s statement from ambulance.
Only one sentence given before sedation:
Tell Dante I should have stopped it when Elena walked toward the car.
I folded paper.
For years I had imagined what I would do if I found person responsible.
Violence had kept me alive.
Built reputation.
Protected businesses.
But the night Vincent was finally captured, I had no blood on my hands.
May you like
Eight women walked free.
And somehow that felt more powerful than revenge ever had.
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