Chapter 2 - The Scent of Blood and Mud
The rain was falling in thin, icy needles as the black Cadillac Escalade pulled out of the private alley behind Bellarosa’s.
Marcus sat behind the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the dark leather. Tony Graves occupied the front passenger seat, an automatic rifle resting across his knees, his eyes checking the side mirrors every three seconds. Dominic sat in the rear captain’s chair, the bloody pink sneaker resting in his lap.
Beside his boots, curled on a towel that Tony had pulled from the restaurant’s linen closet, was the puppy.
Despite the deep cut along its ribs, the animal refused to lie down fully. It sat upright, its head resting against the glass of the door, its eyes scanning the passing streetlights, its nostrils flaring as it caught scents through the cracked window.
"He's not just running," Tony said softly, turning his head to observe the dog. "Look at him. He’s tracking."
"How far can a pup that size run?" Marcus asked, eyeing the rearview mirror as he navigated the SUV through the slick streets of the Loop. "He’s small. He couldn't have come more than a few miles."
"He came as far as he had to," Dominic said coldly. His right hand rested on the puppy’s head. The animal didn't flinch. It leaned into the touch of his scarred fingers, letting out a soft, ragged sigh before standing up again and scratching urgently at the door panel.
"He wants us to turn," Dominic said. "Take a left on 18th Street."
Marcus swung the heavy vehicle left. The bright lights of downtown Chicago began to fade behind them, replaced by the dark, cavernous shapes of abandoned warehouses, rail yards, and shuttered industrial plants that dominated South Chicago. This was the district known as the Meatpacking Corridor—a maze of rusted corrugated steel, neglected canal basins, and unlit streets where the city’s power grid seemed to simply give up.
Every few blocks, the puppy would shift its weight, pressing its nose against the cracked window and letting out a sharp whine.
"Left here," Dominic directed. "Down toward the river."
"Dom, this is Marlowe territory," Marcus warned, his voice low. "Victor Marlowe’s boys run the security contracts for the railyards down here. If we cross 24th without an escort, it violates the '09 accord. He’ll treat it as an act of war."
"Victor Marlowe can burn in hell," Dominic said flatly. "Keep driving."
The SUV bumped over broken asphalt and rotting timber rail ties, its high beams cutting through the gloom. The rain was turning into a thick, low-lying river fog that clung to the bottom of the streetlights.
The puppy suddenly barked—a sharp, high-pitched sound that echoed inside the cab. It slammed its front paws against the glass.
"Stop the car," Dominic ordered.
Marcus slammed on the brakes. The Escalade slid two feet on the wet pavement before coming to a halt beside an overgrown, weed-choked lot filled with rusted shipping containers and collapsed brick walls.
Dominic opened his door and stepped out into the mud. The rain hit his face like ice, but he didn't feel it. He reached back inside, expecting to lift the wounded puppy, but the animal leaped out past his legs, landed heavily in the mud, and limped toward a rusted chain-link fence.
"Tony, hold position with the car," Dominic commanded. "Marcus, with me."
"Dom, take a jacket at least," Marcus pleaded, reaching for a heavy coat in the back.
Dominic ignored him. He drew a custom, suppressed SIG Sauer P226 from his shoulder holster, checking the chamber with a quiet, practiced movement. Marcus drew his own weapon, stepping into the mud behind his brother.
The puppy had stopped beside a tear in the bottom of the chain-link fence. It didn't squeeze through. Instead, it sat down and began frantically pawing at a scrap of material caught on a rusty strand of wire.
Dominic knelt in the mud. He reached out with his bare hand and untangled the scrap.
It was a strip of light blue cotton cloth, torn from a child's dress or nightgown. Printed on the fabric were tiny white daisies.
He held it up to his nose. Beneath the smell of damp earth and rust, there was a faint, unmistakable scent of children's soap—and fresh blood.
"There's more," Marcus whispered, pointing his flashlight beam twenty yards ahead into the overgrown lot.
Lying in the mud was a small yellow hair ribbon. Beyond that, pressed deeply into a patch of soft, wet clay, was a single bare footprint. It was tiny—no larger than the pink shoe Dominic carried in his coat pocket.
Beside the footprint was a drag mark, as if something heavy had been pulled across the earth, accompanied by a thick, dark pool of blood that the rain had not yet managed to wash away.
"This wasn't a runaway," Marcus said, his voice dropping into an uncomfortable whisper. His usual arrogant swagger was completely gone. "Someone pulled a kid out of a vehicle here. Look at the tire tracks."
He pointed the light toward two deep, parallel ruts in the mud near the edge of the pavement. Heavy treads. Commercial van or heavy-duty truck.
Dominic stood up slowly. His eyes swept the dark lot, tracking the line of broken weeds and discarded trash that led deeper into the industrial wasteland.
The puppy gave another desperate whine, moving ahead into the darkness, stepping carefully around shattered glass and jagged metal. It was moving slower now, its back leg trembling violently from the wound in its side, but its determination did not waver.
"The dog isn't just following a trail," Dominic realized, his voice hollow. "He escaped from wherever they were holding them. He ran through these woods, through the mud, all the way to the avenue."
"Why Bellarosa’s?" Marcus asked, staring at the puppy. "How did an animal know to run into a restaurant three miles away?"
"Because he was running away from something worse than death," Dominic said. "And he looked for the brightest lights he could find."
They moved silently through the abandoned lot, following the small brown shape of the dog. The air grew thicker with the smell of wet rot, stagnant canal water, and old diesel fumes.
They crossed two abandoned rail tracks, stepped beneath the dripping archway of a ruined stone bridge, and emerged onto a deserted access road that ran parallel to the river.
At the end of the access road stood a massive, four-story brick structure. Its windows were covered with rusted iron bars, its roof was caked in moss, and a faded painted sign across the front read: CALUMET MEATPACKING CO. – EST. 1922.
It was an ancient, abandoned slaughterhouse.
Or it should have been.
Dominic raised his left hand, signaling Marcus to freeze.
High up on the second floor, behind a row of grimy glass panes, a single dim light flickered. Near the ground level, hidden behind a high corrugated steel security wall, sat two modern, dark-windowed passenger vans.
And standing beside the rusted entry gate, holding automatic rifles beneath heavy ponchos, were two men.
Marcus crouched beside a ruined brick wall, pointing his flashlight toward the perimeter wall. "That's a Marlowe property," he hissed. "I recognize that security setup. They put in those high-frequency cameras two months ago. Dom... Victor Marlowe owns this entire block through a shell corporation called Riverfront Logistics."
Dominic looked at the slaughterhouse. He looked at the armed men. He looked down at the tiny yellow hair ribbon he had shoved into his suit pocket.
The puppy pressed itself against Dominic’s leg, shivering violently, its eyes fixed on the illuminated second-floor window.
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From deep inside the building, muffled by brick, steel, and rain, came a sound that reached through the cold air and struck Dominic Hale like a physical blow.
A child’s scream.
