The Million Dollar Janitor

Chapter 5 The Traitor's Game

Evan Creed stood frozen, the cop’s voice cutting through the night. “Drop the weapon, Creed,” the guy said again, hand on his gun. The sedan’s headlights blazed behind Evan, boxing him in on the dark Chicago street. Pipe in one hand, cash stuffed in his jacket, he felt like a rat in a trap. Midnight loomed close—the docks, his shot at claiming the Syndicate, slipping away. But this cop wasn’t normal. No lights, no backup. Syndicate, Evan thought. Had to be.

“I said drop it!” the cop barked, stepping closer. His badge glinted, but his eyes were cold—bought, not brave. Evan’s mind raced. The sedan’s engine growled, doors clicking open. Two hunts, one prize—him. He wasn’t dying here. Not yet.

He tossed the pipe, letting it clang loud on the pavement. The cop smirked, relaxing a hair. Big mistake. Evan bolted sideways,

diving behind a parked van. A gunshot cracked—the cop’s, not the sedan’s. The bullet pinged off metal, missing him by inches. Evan scrambled up, sprinting down the street. Tires screeched—the sedan peeled after him, cop shouting into a radio.

Evan cut into an alley, legs screaming. The phone buzzed in his pocket: First task:

eliminate the traitor by dawn. Same message, no help. “Who’s the traitor?” he muttered, dodging a trash can. Lila said the Syndicate council—five bosses—wanted him gone. Maybe one of them sent these guys. He needed to know who he was fighting.

He ducked behind a stack of crates, catching his breath. The sedan slowed, headlights sweeping. Evan’s janitor brain kicked in—he knew alleys, shadows. He grabbed a broken bottle from the ground, sharp and quiet. Voices drifted from the street. “He’s close,” the cop said. “Council wants him dead before he hits the docks.”

Council. There it was. Evan’s ears perked. He crept closer, staying low, listening. The sedan’s driver—a wiry guy with

glasses—leaned out. “Voss ain’t messing around. Said the kid’s a loose end.” The cop grunted. “Russo’s pissed too—thinks he’s got the throne locked.”

Evan’s gut twisted. Voss. Russo. Names—finally. The Syndicate council wasn’t just a ghost story. They were real, and they were hunting him. He gripped the bottle tighter. Five bosses, Lila said. Who were they?

A third voice cut in—bald guy from the sedan, back from the lot fight. “Kane’s the one pushing. Wants proof he’s Tommy’s kid before we waste him.” Evan froze. Tommy—his dad—again. These guys knew more about his life than he did.

The cop laughed, mean. “Elena’s quiet—probably waiting to see who bleeds first. And Marcus? He’s just counting the cash.” Bald guy smirked. “Five heads, one crown. Kid’s screwed.”

Evan’s head spun. Five names, five bosses: Voss, Russo, Kane, Elena, Marcus. The Syndicate council—Hale’s inner circle, now clawing for his empire. Voss sounded ruthless, Russo cocky, Kane cautious, Elena sly, Marcus greedy. And Evan, the “heir,” was the wrench in their gears. Tommy’s blood put him here, but why? What did his dad do to earn this?

The sedan’s engine revved. “Spread out,” bald guy said. “He’s got the card—can’t let him use it.” Evan patted his jacket—the black card, a million bucks tied to Syndicate cash. They feared it. Good. He slipped deeper into the alley, mind buzzing. The council wasn’t united—cracks he could use. But first, he had to survive.

Footsteps crunched—cop coming his way. Evan pressed against the wall, bottle ready. The guy rounded the corner, gun low, muttering into his radio. “No sign yet—Voss’ll—” Evan lunged, slashing the bottle across the cop’s arm. The guy yelled, dropping the radio. Evan kicked his knee, hard, and the cop crumpled, cursing.

“Shut up,” Evan hissed, grabbing the gun. Second time tonight he’d held one—still felt wrong. The cop glared, blood dripping. “You’re dead, Creed. Council owns this city.”

“Who’s the traitor?” Evan snapped, aiming shaky. “The phone said eliminate one.”

The cop smirked, wincing. “Pick a name. They all stabbed Hale eventually. Russo’s my bet—too loud, too fast.” He spat. “Won’t matter. You’re no match.”

Engines roared—the sedan circling back. Evan bolted, leaving the cop groaning. Russo, a traitor? Maybe. But he needed the docks, not guesses. He cut through a vacant lot, west toward the water. The council’s names burned in his

head—Voss, Russo, Kane, Elena, Marcus. Five sharks, smelling blood. Hale’s empire was theirs to lose, and Evan was the bait.

He hit a quiet street, docks close now—smell of fish and oil in the air. The cash in his jacket crinkled, gun heavy in his hand. Midnight was minutes away. The phone buzzed: You’re late. Prove it now. Evan swore. Prove what? He wasn’t Tommy, wasn’t Hale. Just a janitor with a target on his back.

A shadow moved ahead—tall, still. Lila stepped out, gun holstered, eyes sharp. “You’re a mess,” she said, glancing at the blood on his shirt. “Council’s dogs?”

“Yeah,” Evan panted. “Voss, Russo, Kane—all of ‘em. Who are they?”

Lila’s jaw tightened. “Hale’s circle. Voss runs muscle—cold bastard. Russo’s flash, all talk, big deals. Kane’s brains—watches, waits. Elena plays quiet, cuts throats later. Marcus hoards cash, nothing else. They kept Hale king—till he died.”

“And the traitor?” Evan asked, holding up the phone.

She shrugged. “Could be any. Hale trusted too much.” She nodded west. “Docks are there. Midnight’s here. Move.”

Evan stepped forward, but headlights flared—another car, fast. Not the sedan—a sleek black limo, windows dark. It stopped, dust swirling. A door opened, and a man climbed out—older, silver hair, suit sharp as a blade. He smiled, thin and icy. “Evan Creed,” he said. “I’m Kane. Let’s talk about your father.”