The Million Dollar Janitor

Chapter 14 Factions of the fallen

Evan Creed froze as police flashlights cut through the dim safehouse, their sharp voices barking, “Freeze!” Guns pointed his way, and the cash he’d been holding spilled across the floor. The ledger—Kane’s Syndicate secrets—slipped from his grip, its pages fluttering open like a wounded bird. Kane’s final words echoed from the phone, cool and taunting, “Rebuild’s yours, burn it, or rise.” He was gone, a shadow slipped free. Ricky dropped his bat with a thud, Tony, Jay, and Mike scattered into the dark corners, the crew breaking apart fast.

Mia’s sedan growled outside, but the cops stormed in—boots loud, real Chicago PD, not Syndicate pawns—too late to stop the chaos Evan had unleashed, but loud enough to catch its wake.

“Creed!” a cop shouted, his badge catching the light—honest, not bought. Evan’s whirlwind had burned the council down—Voss locked up, Elena bleeding, Russo turned snitch, Kane vanished—but the smoke drew new hunters. Evan dove low, sliding under a table with the quick thinking of a janitor, heart pounding. He snatched the ledger, cash tempting but out of reach, and crawled toward a cracked window nearby. Ricky’s voice rang out, “Evan, go!” His bat swung hard, a cop grunted in pain, and a gap opened.

Evan rolled through the window, glass nicking his skin, landing in a cold, dark alley. He ran, breath sharp in his chest, ledger clutched tight—the Syndicate’s soul his now, cops on his heels, Kane’s mocking laugh lingering. Chaos had won, but what did it cost? Mia’s voice crackled through his earpiece, urgent, “Junkyard, now!” Evan dodged left, then right, sirens fading as Chicago’s shadows swallowed him whole. He reached the west side, deep in the gloom—his crew waiting—Tony bleeding, Jay panting, Mike patching a cut, Ricky grinning despite the blood on his face.

“That was close,” Evan said, catching his breath, dropping the ledger on an old crate. The cash was lost, left behind to buy their escape. “Kane’s gone, council’s finished, cops nabbed what’s left.”

Mia nodded, her laptop glowing softly, Syndicate feeds silent and dead. “Voss is in cuffs, Russo’s talking, Elena’s in a hospital bed, chained. Kane slipped out clean.” She paused, a new alert pinging. “Hold on—street chatter’s spiking—docks, alleys—factions are moving.”

Evan’s gut tightened—factions? “The council’s gone, the Syndicate’s mine—what factions?”

Mia tapped her screen, a map lighting up—Chicago buzzing, alive with the Syndicate’s ashes drawing scavengers. “The power’s wide open, Kane’s out, new players stepping in. Look—three groups, big ones, growing fast.” She scrolled, names popping up—rough, real—rival factions clawing at the ruins.

“First up, Red Blades,” Mia said, pulling a photo—a tattooed man with a shaved head, Dockside bar blurry in the background. “South side street gang, Voss’s old muscle breaking away. Their leader’s Jax—young, tough, hates Kane, wants the docks. Your vault hit started it—rumors of cash spread quick.”

Evan swore under his breath. Red Blades—Voss’s leftovers—raw and restless—Syndicate muscle turned loose. His chaos had sparked them, the north docks loot a beacon now. “Who’s next?”

“Shadow Crew,” Mia said, showing a grainy image—a woman, hood up, city skyline dark behind her. “North side tech thieves, Kane’s former crew gone rogue. Vex leads them—smart, quiet—split from Kane, stole his tricks. They hit banks, power grids—your wipe on his tech gave them space. Syndicate’s eyes are blind, they’re rising.”

Evan clenched his jaw. Shadow Crew—Kane’s brain trust turned against him—his attack on Kane’s hub had cracked their chains. Tommy’s wild streak was spiraling out of control. “And the last?”

“Iron Pact,” Mia said, an older man with a gray beard appearing, warehouse stacked with guns in the shot. “West side mercs—ex-cops, soldiers—tied to Russo’s deals, funded by Elena’s cash. Holt’s their boss—hard, cold—ran Syndicate hits. Your moves flipped Russo and weakened Elena—they’re off the leash, arming up, aiming for the city.”

Evan paced, the ledger heavy in his hands—Red Blades, Shadow Crew, Iron Pact—Syndicate’s death had birthed predators, his chaos slicing deep, council’s fall splitting loyalties wide open. Chicago’s underbelly growled, Tommy’s ghost chuckling—chaos wins. “They’re like us,” Evan said, “nobodies grabbing power—my mess.”

Ricky grinned, bat scratched and bloody. “Perfect—let’s smash them, keep what’s ours.”

Tony grunted, arm wrapped, Jay twirled his chain, Mike gave a silent nod—crew tight, cash lost, loyalty strong—Syndicate’s pieces belonged to Evan, factions his to face. “Mia, where do we start?” Evan asked, lifting the gun from Voss’s loot—full clip, ready.

“Red Blades, docks, closest,” Mia replied, zooming the map—south side lit up, a bar pulsing with life—Jax’s turf, cash rumors hot, vault hit loud—Syndicate’s echo pulling in knives. “They’re active tonight—take it back or it’s gone.”

Evan gave a sharp nod, crew piling into Mia’s sedan—it creaked under their weight. South docks loomed ahead—fish stench, oil slicks, grit thick in the air—real. The Red Blades’ bar stood squat, neon flickering, guards bulky and loud—Voss’s style, muscle over brains. Evan crept closer, gun in hand, Ricky at his side, Tony, Jay, and Mike fanning out—chaos crew led by a janitor, hunting Syndicate’s heirs.

A guard stood watch, big and buzzed, smoking a cigarette—Evan signaled, Ricky swung—the bat cracked against the man’s skull, a soft thud as he fell. Tony dragged the body aside, the door cracked open—Evan slipped in. Smoke hung heavy, beer bottles clinked, shouts filled the air—Red Blades lounged, Jax at the bar—shaved head, tattoos sprawling, laughing with a stack of cash in front of him—vault loot, Evan’s hit, now theirs.

Evan stepped forward, gun raised, “Jax!” Ricky’s crew burst through—bats, chains, crowbars ready—guards jumped, chaos erupted—Evan fired a warning shot, the ceiling sparked—Red Blades froze. Jax spun, pistol drawn quick—Evan ducked as a bullet zipped past, flipping a table for cover. Ricky swung, bat smashing Jax’s arm—his gun clattered away—Tony tackled, pinning the big guy—Jay’s chain whipped out—Mike’s crowbar dropped a guard—blood sprayed, bar

wrecked—Syndicate’s echo silenced loud.

Evan knelt beside Jax, gun pressed close, ledger held up, “My cash, my docks—talk!” Crew loomed—Tony cracked his knuckles, Jay smirked, Mike stared, Ricky’s bat dripped—Red Blades shrank, their rise cut short, chaos ruling—Evan’s way.

Jax spat blood, defiance in his eyes, “Creed, janitor punk—the Syndicate’s dead, Blades take it—Kane’s gone, Voss’s mine!” He laughed, rough and mean, tattoos flexing—loyalty torn, Voss’s muscle turned rival—a power gap Evan’s hits had widened—Tommy’s gift now a curse.

“Voss’s locked,” Evan said, gun steady, “Syndicate’s mine—Blades bend or break.”

Jax glared, crew tense, bar quiet—Red Blades’ spark dimmed, faction wobbling—Evan’s hold fragile—chaos king or fool?

Mia’s voice broke through, urgent, “Shadow Crew, north—bank hit—now!” Evan stiffened—factions alive—Red Blades pinned—Shadow Crew moving—Kane’s dogs loose—Syndicate’s tech rogue—his wipe opened the gate—chaos spreading—Tommy’s way unbound.

Evan stood, “Tie them—Jax too,” he ordered—Ricky pulled zip-ties, Tony hauled—guards groaned—cash reclaimed, vault loot returned—ledger safe—Red Blades down—one faction cracked—two waited—Shadow Crew’s tech, Iron Pact’s guns—Syndicate’s corpse bled—rival claws sharp—Evan’s crew rolled out—sedan roared—north side called—bank glowed—chaos beckoned—king rising or falling