Read Chapter 23: The Virus

The voting had ended in a tie, but Walter knew ties never held. Not in boardrooms, not in trenches, and certainly not in a Cicero warehouse with a dying man on a cot and a stolen document that could bring down the United States Treasury.

Roy had gone quiet after the count. Too quiet. He'd pulled his hat low and walked to the far end of the warehouse, rolling a cigarette with the careful patience of a man who had already decided his next move. Walter watched him through the gloom, watched the way Roy's eyes kept drifting to the document case propped against the wall like a dog eyeing a bone.

Walter had seen men like Roy before. In the bank, during the panic, when the line of depositors stretched around the block and the board quietly voted to suspend withdrawals—the ones who smiled and said *we'll get through this* were always the first to have their bags packed by Friday.

He waited until the warehouse settled into the slow breathing of men pretending to sleep. Doc's wheezing had steadied into something almost rhythmic. Jack snored in the corner, one hand still curled around his pistol like a child with a blanket. And Roy—Roy lay still as a corpse, but Walter could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched even in rest.

Walter rose. His shoes made no sound on the concrete. He moved to the document case, slid the papers out, and carried them to the single bare bulb at the workbench.

He had two hours until dawn. He used every minute.

---

"Walter."

Doc's voice was a rasp, barely above a whisper. His face was the color of old newspapers, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill of the warehouse.

Walter crossed to him, crouching low. "You should be sleeping."

"Couldn't. Heard you moving." Doc's eyes flicked to the workbench. "What are you doing?"

Walter reached into his coat and pulled out a folded stack of papers, thin as onion skin. "Making a copy."

Doc's lips twitched. "Carbon paper? That's the best you've got?"

"It's what I had." Walter tucked the copy into his breast pocket. "The original goes back exactly where it was. But if Roy decides to make his own deal with DeVries—if he walks out that door with the original and sells us all out—there's a second one."

"Where?"

Walter pointed to the ventilation grate above the workbench, its slats caked with decades of grime. "No one's cleaned that since the Wilson administration. Even Roy won't think to look there."

Doc coughed, a wet sound that rattled in his chest. "You trust me with this?"

"I trust you to keep a secret that could get us all killed." Walter paused. "That's about all I trust right now."

Doc studied him. In the dim light, his eyes looked ancient. "You think Roy's going to fold."

"I think Roy's already folding. He's just doing it slow enough that nobody hears the paper crease." Walter sat on a crate beside the cot. "He proposed blackmail on the record. When that vote tied, he lost face. Men like Roy don't lose face and stay loyal."

"He's been loyal for months."

"Roy's been loyal to Roy. The crew was just the fastest horse he could ride." Walter ran a hand through his hair. "Now we're carrying a document worth five million dollars to the right buyer. Five million. Roy could retire twice over and never see a cell."

"Or he could get us all killed."

"That too."

Doc was quiet for a long moment. His breathing was shallow, labored. Walter could see the dark stain spreading through the bandages on his side despite Doc's insistence that the bleeding had stopped.

"There's something I should tell you," Doc said finally.

Walter leaned in.

"When I was in the Army—before—" Doc stopped. Swallowed. "There was an officer. He caught me stealing food from the mess. I was starving, we all were, but that didn't matter. He had me in front of the tribunal in three days."

"What happened?"

"Another officer stepped in. Said I'd been under his command, said the theft was his responsibility, said he'd vouch for me." Doc's eyes met Walter's. "I repaid him by deserting a month later. Left him holding the bag when the investigation started. He got a dishonorable discharge for my crime."

Walter said nothing.

"His name was Arthur Phelps. The missing bank examiner from the document." Doc's voice cracked. "He didn't go into hiding because of DeVries's men. He went into hiding because his career was destroyed, and the man who destroyed it—the man who ruined him for something he didn't do—was sitting in the same room as him, bleeding on a cot."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Walter felt the floor shift beneath him. All the threads he'd been pulling—the document, the examiner, the missing witness—suddenly wove into a pattern he hadn't seen.

"Phelps ruined his life to protect DeVries's scheme," Walter said slowly. "And you ruined his life to protect yourself. That's why you're here, isn't it? Not for the money. For the chance to make it right."

Doc closed his eyes. "Something like that."

Walter stood. His legs felt unsteady. He looked at the ventilation grate, at the copy of the document tucked inside, at the truth he'd just been handed.

"Phelps is in St. Louis," he said.

"That's what the document says."

"Then we go to St. Louis. We find him. We ask him to testify." Walter turned back to Doc. "But we do it without Roy."

---

The gunfire came at first light.

Walter was awake, staring at the ceiling, when the sound of breaking glass shattered the silence. He was on his feet before his brain caught up, hand finding the revolver he'd tucked under his cot. Jack was already moving, rifle in hand, his eyes wide and white in the predawn dim.

"Micks," Jack hissed. "Big Jim's boys. They found us."

Sal was frozen in the corner, face the color of chalk. His gambling debt—the one he'd sworn was settled—had come calling.

"Window," Walter said. "Sal, you take Doc. Jack, you're with me. Roy—"

He turned. Roy's spot was empty. The blanket lay undisturbed, and the document case was gone.

Walter's blood turned to ice. He spun to the workbench. The original papers still lay exactly where he'd left them, but the case—

The case wasn't there. Roy had taken it and left the contents behind. Or taken it, checked the contents, and fled.

Either way, Roy was gone.

"Walter!" Doc's voice was urgent. "They're at the front door."

Walter moved. He grabbed Doc under the arms, dragged him across the warehouse floor, ignoring the man's cry of pain. Sal scrambled to pull up the window at the back, its frame swollen shut with decades of paint and weather. Jack fired twice through the front door, the shots deafening in the enclosed space.

"Move!" Walter shouted.

Sal threw his shoulder against the frame. It gave with a screech of wood and rust. He shoved Doc through first, Walter pushing from behind, then crawled out himself. Jack came last, firing over his shoulder, fleeing into the gray Chicago morning.

They ran three blocks before they stopped, gasping in an alley behind a shuttered butcher shop. Doc was fading fast, his face gray, his lips blue.

"He left us," Sal whispered. "Roy left us to die."

Walter looked back toward the warehouse. Smoke was beginning to curl from the roof—one of Big Jim's men must have thrown a match.

Walter touched his breast pocket. The carbon copy was still there. The ventilation grate would burn with the rest of the building.

But he knew every word of that document now. He'd read it twice. He'd memorized the names, the dates, the account numbers. Arthur Phelps was alive in St. Louis.

And Roy had the original.

"Jack," Walter said, his voice flat. "How much cash do you actually have?"

"Not enough."

"Then we're going to St. Louis before Roy gets there."

Jack stared at him. "You want to chase the woman who took the wallet and then robbed the horse?"

"I want to find the only man alive who can make what Roy's carrying worthless."