The Million Dollar Janitor

chapter 4 Cleaning House

Evan Creed crouched behind the mailbox, the black sedan’s headlights washing over him. His breath fogged in the cold Chicago air, heart pounding like a drum. The car crept closer, engine low and mean.

He clutched the black card Lila gave him—his ticket to millions, maybe—and the rusty pipe he’d grabbed on the roof. Midnight was inching near, the docks still miles away. He wasn’t sure who was in that sedan—Syndicate suits, . A guy stepped into the streetlight—tall, bald, suit crisp like he’d walked off a movie set. No gun yet, but his hand rested on his hip, ready. “Come on out, Creed,” he called, voice smooth and cold. “We know you’re there.”

Evan’s stomach dropped. They knew his name. Not just some random chase—this was personal. He stayed low, mind racing. Lila said the Syndicate’s council wanted him dead—five bosses fighting for Hale’s throne. Was this one of their dogs? He couldn’t fight a bullet with a pipe, but he wasn’t giving up either.

The bald guy took a step, scanning the lot. Evan spotted a busted streetlamp ahead—dark, perfect cover. He bolted, keeping low, boots silent on the dirt. The guy shouted, “He’s moving!” A second door slammed—another thug, heavier, boots loud. Evan hit the shadows, ducking behind the lamp’s base. His janitor life taught him this: stay unseen, know the corners. Now it was keeping him alive.

Headlights swung, lighting the lot. Evan crawled fast, spotting a chain-link fence—rusted, loose. He squeezed through, tearing his uniform, and tumbled into an alley. The sedan revved, circling the block. They will find him soon. He needed a plan—not just running, but fighting back. The phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out: Use the card. Hide smart.

“Hide smart?” he muttered, flipping the card over. Blank, but Lila said it was money—Syndicate money. He didn’t have time to guess how. Footsteps hit the alley’s mouth—bald guy and his buddy, closing in. Evan scanned quick: a dumpster, a back door, trash bags. His janitor brain clicked. He grabbed a trash can lid, dented but solid, and wedged it under the dumpster’s wheel. Then he kicked the can hard, sending it rolling loud toward the street.

The thugs bit. “Over there!” one yelled, running after the noise. Evan slipped to the back door—locked, but old. He jammed the pipe into the frame, prying it open with a grunt. Inside was a dark stairwell, dusty and quiet. He shut the door soft, listening. The sedan’s engine growled outside—they were still hunting.

He climbed the stairs, legs shaky from the chase. The building was empty—old offices, maybe, with broken chairs and peeling paint. He hit the second floor, finding a window cracked open. The sedan idled below, bald guy barking orders into a radio. “He’s close. Check the buildings.” Evan’s chest tightened. They wouldn’t stop.

The phone buzzed again: First task: eliminate the traitor by dawn. Evan stared at it. “Traitor? What traitor?” No answer—just that ticking clock. Dawn was hours off, but midnight loomed closer. He needed the docks, not more riddles. Then he heard it—creaking stairs. One of them was inside.

Evan gripped the pipe, backing into a corner. The heavy thug appeared, gun out, sweating like he’d run a mile. “End of the line, kid,” he growled, aiming. Evan didn’t think—he swung the pipe low, hitting the guy’s shin. The thug yelled, stumbling, and Evan tackled him, slamming him into a desk. Papers flew, the gun skidded. Evan grabbed it, hands shaking, pointing it wild.

“Stay down!” he shouted. The thug glared, clutching his leg, but didn’t move. Evan’s finger hovered on the trigger. He’d never shot anyone—never even held a gun. The guy smirked. “You won’t. You’re no killer.”

Evan’s jaw clenched. “Who’s the traitor?” he demanded, voice rough.

The thug spat blood. “Ask your new friends. Syndicate’s rotten—Hale knew it.” He laughed, mean and low. “You’re dead already.”

Footsteps hit the stairs—bald guy coming. Evan backed up, gun still aimed. He didn’t want to shoot, but he couldn’t stay. He kicked the thug hard in the ribs—enough to slow him—then ran for the window. The fire escape rattled outside. He climbed out, dropping to the alley fast. The sedan’s lights flashed—bald guy must’ve heard.

Evan sprinted west, gun tucked in his waistband, pipe banging his leg. The docks were his shot—Lila said so. But that word stuck: traitor. Someone in the Syndicate was dirty, and he was supposed to fix it? He was a janitor, not a cop. His dad’s face flashed in his mind—Tommy, gone, tied to this mess. Maybe the traitor got him too.

He cut through a parking lot, dodging late-night cars. The sedan’s engine roared somewhere behind—he hadn’t lost them. The black card burned in his pocket. He stopped at an ATM, hands fumbling. Use the card. He slid it in, half-expecting nothing. The screen blinked: Balance: $1,000,000. Evan’s jaw dropped. Real. Too real.

A beep—cash spit out, hundreds in a stack. He grabbed it, stuffing it in his jacket. A million bucks, and he was running for his life. Headlights flared—the sedan screeched into the lot. Evan bolted, cash crinkling, pipe in hand. He hit a side street, lungs burning. The docks weren’t far now—maybe a mile.

Then a cop car rolled up ahead, lights off. Evan froze. The driver stepped out—badge, gun, eyes hard. “Evan Creed?” he said, hand on his holster. “Drop the weapon. We need to talk.”

Evan’s gut twisted. Cops didn’t sneak like that. Syndicate cops? The sedan’s tires squealed closer—two hunts, one prey. He was boxed in, midnight ticking down.