Mister, put your dog in timeout!” Three-year-old Lucy Bennett marched into the private meeting of the most feared man in Chicago with one hand on her hip and the other gripping what

Through the thick, wire-reinforced glass porthole of the sealed blast door, Nora’s face was pale as death, her palms beating frantically against the cold glass.

"Vincent! Open it! Open the door!" she screamed, her voice muffled to a dull vibration through the heavy steel barrier.

Vincent stood on the other side, his back pressed against the locking wheel, breathing heavily. Lucy was held up to the glass by Frank, her tiny face contorted in tears, her little fist banging against the glass beside her mother’s.

"Daddy! Come back! Put the door in timeout!" the little girl cried, her muffled plea shattering Vincent’s heart into a million jagged pieces.

Vincent stepped up to the glass. He pressed his bloody, soot-stained palm flat against the window, right where Lucy’s small hand was touching.

"Listen to your mother, Lucy," Vincent spoke quietly, knowing they could barely hear him, yet his gaze was locked on the child’s eyes. "Take care of Captain Carrot. Keep Daddy’s seat warm at the table."

He looked at Nora. Her eyes were swimming with tears, shaking her head in desperate, frantic denial.

"I love you, Nora," he mouthed through the glass. "Get her out."

Frank met Vincent’s eyes through the porthole, his weathered face tight with grief and solemn respect. Frank nodded once, a soldier’s silent salute, and hauled Nora and Lucy backward toward the Chinatowns exit tunnel as Nora fought against his grip with everything she had left.

The sounds of their footsteps faded into the distant brick darkness.

Vincent let out a long, ragged exhale. The air in his chamber was turning freezing cold, the water around his knees vibrating with the heavy thrum of approaching combat boots.

He turned around slowly.

On the far end of the flooded corridor, forty yards away, twenty heavily armed operatives stood in the black water with high-powered flashlights pointed straight at him, their weapon lights piercing the gloom like blinding white needles.

Parting the ranks of armed men, Gabriel Calder walked forward, stepping casually through the knee-deep water. In his right hand, he held a sleek, nickel-plated assault rifle. His scarred face gleamed with sweat beneath the subterranean lights, his ceramic mask glinting under the glare.

"A noble gesture, little brother," Gabriel said, his voice echoing off the brick arches with chilling satisfaction. "A father’s sacrifice. How poetic. How utterly pathetic."

Vincent didn't drop his stance. He pulled his Kimber, clicked the empty magazine out, let it splash into the water, and smoothly slid his final full magazine into the well with a sharp, lethal *snap*.

"You brought twenty men into a choke point, Gabriel," Vincent said, his voice dropping into absolute silence, devoid of fear, devoid of hesitation. "You always were a terrible tactician."

Gabriel tilted his head, his scarred lips curling into a triumphant sneer. "I don't need tactics, Vince. I have the city. I have the docks. And once I step over your corpse, I will have your sweet little family."

Vincent’s eyes narrowed into twin points of deadly black ice.

"Over my dead body."

Gabriel raised his rifle, aiming directly for Vincent’s heart. "That’s the whole point, brother."

Just as Gabriel’s finger tightened on the trigger, a deep, deafening, mechanical roar echoed from the deep maintenance shaft directly beneath their feet. The concrete floor buckled violently.

*CRACK!*

A massive, pressurized torrent of dark water from Lake Michigan blew through the floorplates between them, a vertical geyser of freezing foam and twisted rebar erupting toward the ceiling, throwing Gabriel off balance and plunging the entire corridor into a roaring, blinding vortex of drowning fury.

Through the mist and the thunder of collapsing masonry, Vincent lunged forward into the spray, his gun leveled straight through the wall of water.