From the outside, it looks like a standard upmarket Chicago cocktail bar. I shake my head and check the address again, looking for some dodgy warehouse or something more fitting for underground gambling. Surely this can’t be right. Illegal gambling should be held in rundown, hole-in-the-wall bars that look like the health department should be knocking on their door any day now, nothing like this scene in front of me. Knowing that Ryan’s phone will be on silent, I have no option, but to find him myself. Getting out of the car, I set the alarm and stroll across the street, noticing with interest that the bar is closed, and a few staff are the only ones left inside as they pack away for the night. I check the neighboring premises and see that there is an alleyway around the side of the building. Knowing that Ryan is inside somewhere and in trouble, I waste no time in crossing the street and walking down the alley, checking constantly for anyone following me or coming out in front of me.
