Chapter 2 - The Silent Code of the UnderpassThe older girl’s cracked, pale lips parted, but for a long, agonizing moment, no sound came out. The roar of the traffic above them on West Randolph Street seemed to recede into a dull, rhythmic thumping, like the heartbeat of a city that had forgotten how to look down.
“M-Maya,” she finally whispered, her voice barely a scrape of sand against stone. She shivered so violently that her teeth clicked together, a rapid, frantic rhythm of pure, unadulterated cold.
“Maya,” Andrew repeated, keeping his voice as steady, warm, and solid as a concrete pillar. He didn't reach out to grab her. He knew, with the sharp intuition of a man who had spent forty-two years navigating the most ruthless environments on earth, that if he snatched her, she would fight, and her fragile, frozen body had zero reserves left for a struggle. “That’s a beautiful name. Maya, look at me.”
She dragged her focus up from the oily pool of slush beneath her knees. Her gray eyes were enormous in her gaunt, dirty face, hollowed out by hunger, exhaustion, and a terrifying, adult-like vigilance.
“I am going to lift Lily first,” Andrew said, his gaze locked onto hers, holding her steady through the sheer force of his presence. “I will not take her away from you. I will hand her straight to my friend Marcus, right there at the top of the hole. You will see him the entire time. And then, I am coming right back down for you. Do you understand?”
Maya’s gaze flicked up to the opening of the grate, where Marcus’s large, anxious face was silhouetted against the dirty orange glow of the streetlights. Marcus was a former Marine, six-foot-four and built like an iron safe, but right now, his face was contorted with a soft, desperate worry that even a terrified child could recognize as safe.
Maya looked back at Lily. The younger girl’s chest gave another faint, hitching rise.
With a slow, agonizing effort that looked like it cost her every ounce of strength she possessed, Maya’s arms began to unspoil from her sister’s body. Her fingers, stiff and blue-gray at the tips, trembled as they let go of the wet, dirty fabric of Lily’s oversized sweatshirt.
“Don’t… don’t let them put her in a trash bag,” Maya whispered, her eyes filling with a sudden, desperate panic. “The people in the dark… they said when kids freeze, they put them in black bags.”
Andrew felt a physical wave of nausea hit him, a burning wash of rage and horror that made his jaw lock until his teeth ached. What kind of world—what kind of monsters—had these children been running from to make them prefer a freezing storm drain to whatever was waiting for them above ground?
“Nobody is putting anyone in a bag, Maya,” Andrew said, his voice dropping into a quiet, absolute register that carried the weight of his billions. “I promise you. On my life.”
He reached down and slid his arms beneath Lily’s tiny form. She was so light it was horrifying. She felt like a bundle of wet paper and frozen twigs. Her clothes—a threadbare pair of leggings and a stained, adult-sized hoodie—were completely saturated with the icy, toxic runoff of the Chicago streets.
As he lifted her, her head fell back against his shoulder. Her skin was ice-cold, but beneath his palm, he felt the tiny, rapid, frantic flutter of her heart. It was too fast, too weak, like a bird trapped inside a chimney.
“I have her,” Andrew called out, his voice echoing in the wet stone chamber of the drain. “Marcus, take her. Gently.”
Andrew stood up, his leather shoes slipping in the frozen muck, his knees straining as he lifted Lily toward the opening of the grate. Marcus reached down into the hole, his massive, gloved hands remarkably tender as he scooped the little girl up and pulled her into the freezing winter air.
“I’ve got her, boss,” Marcus called down, his voice thick. “She’s breathing. I’m wrapping her in the emergency blanket from the trunk.”
Andrew turned back to Maya.
She was sitting alone in the dark now, her arms wrapped around her own chest, looking smaller and more fragile than she had when she was holding her sister. Without the responsibility of protecting Lily keeping her upright, she seemed to be collapsing inward, her head dropping toward her knees.
“Maya,” Andrew said, stepping closer.
She didn't look up. Her breathing was shallow, a faint, whistling sound in her throat.
“Maya, come here.”
He didn't wait for her permission this time. He knelt, scooped her into his arms, and pulled her against his chest. She didn't fight him. The moment his arms closed around her, she let out a long, broken sigh and went completely limp, her head rolling against his shoulder, her icy cheek pressing against the wet silk of his tie.
Andrew climbed out of the drain, his muscles screaming, his tailored trousers ruined, his bare hands bleeding from where the iron grate had torn his flesh. He didn't care. He stepped out onto the slushy pavement of West Randolph Street just as the distant, wailing scream of emergency sirens began to echo through the skyscrapers.
A small crowd had gathered under the overpass—a few commuters, a couple of teenagers with their phones out, a homeless man wrapped in a blue tarp who was watching with wide, silent eyes.
“Oh my God, are those kids?” a woman in a heavy puffer coat gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Were they down there?”
Andrew didn't look at her. He didn't look at the phone screens that were already being raised to record the scene. He strode straight to the back of his black town car, where Marcus had laid Lily on the leather seat, wrapping her in a silver, crinkling space blanket and his own heavy wool coat.
Andrew slid into the back seat beside them, holding Maya tightly against his chest, his arms wrapping around both girls to shield them from the cold wind that whistled through the open car door.
“Marcus, hit the heat,” Andrew ordered. “All the way up.”
The sirens grew deafeningly loud, the red and blue lights of an ambulance and two police cruisers reflecting wildly off the wet concrete of the underpass as they pulled up to the curb, tires splashing dirty slush across the pavement.
Paramedics scrambled out of the back of the ambulance, carrying orange medical bags and a pediatric stretcher. Behind them, two Chicago police officers stepped out of their cruiser, their faces alert and cautious.
“Sir!” the lead paramedic, a no-nonsense woman with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, called out as she approached the town car. “We need to get them into the rig immediately.”
Andrew looked down at the two girls. Maya’s eyes were closed now, her breathing slow and shallow, while Lily’s face was still pale and unresponsive.
“Take them,” Andrew said, his voice cracking with an emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel in twenty years. He carefully handed Maya over to the paramedic, then helped Marcus lift Lily. “I’m coming with you.”
“Only one passenger in the front of the rig, sir,” the paramedic said, her hands already moving with practiced efficiency as she checked Lily’s pulse. “And we need to know who they are. Are you the father?”
May you like
Andrew looked at the police officer who had stepped up to the car door, notepad in hand.
“No,” Andrew said, his voice solidifying, the cold, powerful billionaire returning to his eyes. “I’m Andrew Whitaker. And until we find out who did this to them, they belong to me.”
