Chapter 2: The Ghost of Chicago

Mace checked the tablet one last time before he stepped out of the black SUV. The client’s warehouse sat three blocks back from the riverfront, a low brick building with new cameras and an old loading dock that still smelled like diesel when the wind shifted. He had walked the perimeter twice, confirmed the access logs, and was ready to leave when he heard his name.

Not the name on the security firm’s letterhead. The old one.

“Mace.”

He turned. Detective Carter Vance stood on the sidewalk in a cheap sport coat, badge clipped to his belt, hands in his pockets like he had nowhere better to be. Ten years had put more gray at his temples and a little more weight under the jacket, but the posture was the same—relaxed, watchful, already calculating. Carter had worked the same South Side district they had. Same unit. Same off-the-books arrangements. He had been the one who taught Mace how to make a traffic stop disappear when the right envelope changed hands.

Mace kept his expression flat. “You’re a long way from Chicago.”

“Transferred six months ago,” Carter said. He glanced past Mace at the warehouse, then at the river. “JPD needed people who already knew how certain things work. I told them I did.” He looked back at Mace. “Didn’t expect to run into you checking cameras for some logistics company.”