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* * *
Unfortunately, landing didn’t really improve my understanding. We’d approached a large island and landed on a concrete helipad, the lights bright enough to obscure anything else around it.
We hopped out of the helicopter, duck-walked away from the rotors, looked back in dismay as it lifted off again into the night.
Shit, Morgan said, squinting from the light.
Yeah, I agreed.
As the helicopter receded, the sound of waves crashing on the shore some distance below us filled the air.
“Let’s go,” said the man in fatigues. We followed him to the edge of the helipad where two more figures, also in black and carrying automatic weapons, gestured us toward a well-trimmed and mulch-covered path through dense woods not yet greened by spring. After a moment, we emerged onto the small, flat lawn of what looked very much like a traditional Midwestern ranch-style house, except this one was much, much larger.
“What is this?” Morgan asked.
“Torrance Hall,” the guard said, apparently not seeing the need to be circumspect when it wasn’t expected we’d be leaving the island again. That was concerning.
“It’s where some of the old-school Chicago mobsters kept their booze and money. Ferried it back and forth to the city when supplies ran low.” He shrugged. “Boss likes the ambience.”
He walked to the front door, opened it. We stepped into a tidy home with 1970s décor, heavy on the oranges and ochres, with tweed furniture and shag carpeting.
The house smelled slightly musty, like a vacation home just opened for the season. Since winter had only just begun to break its hold on Chicago, that might not have been far from the truth.
“It’s dark out,” I whispered now that we were inside, using the agreed-upon code to activate the earbud, but heard only static in response. We must have been too far away for a signal, which meant not only did we not have weapons, but we didn’t have any way of communicating with the House.
Technology, I thought with a curse, really, really hoping Mallory was having better luck with magic.
“This way,” the guard said, and we followed him into a living room. “Stop.”
The guards with guns stood at our backs. The first guard gestured us to spread out our arms. He patted me down, then Morgan, and when he was satisfied, began moving again.
We walked past a kitchen with avocado-toned appliances, into a den with a sunken floor dotted with throw pillows. The house had been updated by someone since the mobsters had used it, but not in the last forty years.
The guard took a passageway to an outbuilding, and when the guards with guns looked at us menacingly, we opted to follow him inside . . . into a very recently updated game room. Bar on one end with a few high-top tables, a pool table in the middle, arcade-style video games along the wall.
Jude Maguire, shirtless and bearing a placket of bandages below his ribs, leaned over the pool table.
I cursed silently. And since I hadn’t injured his ribs, I guessed the Circle had been pissed about our little Streeterville outing.
“Mr. Maguire,” the guard said. “They’re here.”
Jude looked up, glanced at us, then looked down at the table again. He aimed, released, and the balls sailed across the table with a crack of sound.
There were three other men in the room, in addition to the three guards who’d accompanied us. All of them were thick-necked and broad-shouldered, and the air vibrated from the volume of weapons they carried.
One of the other men stepped forward for his turn, and Jude stepped back, held his cue like a pike, crossed one ankle over the other.
“They cause any trouble?” Maguire asked.
“No, sir.”
Sir? Since when was Jude Maguire a “sir”? He was muscle, not leadership. Leadership didn’t put itself in the line of fire, in clear view of the public. And it certainly didn’t get broken ribs after a failed operation. But that hardly mattered now. Nobody in the room argued, and we weren’t exactly in a position to do so.
The second player made his selection, sent a couple of balls spinning ineffectually before giving up the board to Maguire again. He walked around the table, checking angles.
“We’re ready for your demands,” Morgan said into the tense silence.
“Our demands,” Maguire repeated, then pulled back the cue, snapped it forward. The ball ricocheted across the table, hit the bumper, then sailed into the diagonal pocket. He rose, looked us over. “Your former Master borrowed a lot of money from us, asked for a lot of favors. And you don’t want to pay us back.”
