Chapter 13 - The Pawn Sacrificed
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Preston Hale paced the luxurious carpet of his father’s penthouse, pouring his third glass of vodka. He was sweating profusely despite the heavy air conditioning.
The news reports playing on the television were terrifying. Massive Fires at South Side Warehouses. Shootout in the West Loop. The city was erupting in violence, and Preston knew exactly why.
He had handed Sergei the keys to ambush Elena Carter. He had expected a clean kidnapping, a ransom demand, and a swift return of his family's hotels once Carter was forced to surrender his shares. He hadn't expected a bloodbath.
His phone vibrated violently on the marble counter.
Preston snatched it up. “Sergei? Tell me you have the girl. Carter is going insane out there! He’s burning everything!”
“We do not have the girl, you idiot,” Sergei’s voice snarled through the receiver, background noise of shouting and sirens echoing behind him. “Russo got her out. Your intel was flawed. They anticipated the trap.”
“I gave you exactly what you asked for!” Preston shouted, his voice cracking with pure panic. “You promised me protection!”
“I promised you a reward for a successful operation,” Sergei corrected coldly. “The operation failed. My men are dead. My businesses are in ashes. You are no longer an asset, Preston. You are a loose end.”
“Sergei, please, wait—”
“Goodbye, Preston.”
The line went dead.
Preston dropped the phone, his hands shaking so violently he spilled his vodka. He was completely alone. His father had disowned him, Michael Carter was hunting the traitor, and the Russians had just abandoned him to the wolves.
He ran to his bedroom, pulling a suitcase from the closet, frantically throwing clothes and cash into it. He needed to get to the airport. He needed to leave the country tonight.
As he zipped the suitcase shut, the heavy oak doors of the penthouse exploded inward with a deafening crash.
Preston screamed, stumbling backward onto his bed.
Four men in dark suits stepped into the room, their weapons drawn and equipped with silencers. They didn't look like police. They looked like professional executioners.
“Preston Hale,” the lead man said smoothly, keeping his gun aimed directly at Preston’s chest. “Mr. Carter would like to have a word with you.”
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“I didn't do it!” Preston wept, holding his hands up in pathetic surrender. “The Russians forced me! I swear to God, I didn't want to hurt her!”
The men didn't care about his excuses. Two of them grabbed Preston by the arms, dragging him brutally from the bed, ignoring his sobbing pleas as they hauled him out of the penthouse and into the nightmare he had created.
