Gabriel’s eyes did not leave Evan’s face. Fourteen years of blood, sweat, midnight phone calls, and silent understandings hung in the quiet foyer of the mansion, reduced to the steady, deceptive hum of the grandfather clock.

Gabriel didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. He looked at the red LED numbers ticking down on Arthur’s chest-mounted timer.

03:45... 03:44...

“You think blowing up the tower kills the empire, Arthur?” Gabriel asked, his tone ice-cold, completely devoid of panic. “Rowan Freight isn’t a building. It’s an infrastructure. Take away the tower, and the ports still run. The automated cranes still move.”

“Not when the municipal mainframe is tied into this detonator,” Arthur smiled, his thumb hovering inches away from the toggle switch. “One click, and every shipping record, every asset title, and every dollar you own turns to ash. You’ll be right back where your grandfather started—a broke punk on the South Side.”

Gabriel slowly slid his right hand out of his coat pocket, keeping his left hand free.

“You forgot one thing, Arthur,” Gabriel said softly.

Arthur’s smile faltered slightly. “And what’s that?”

“Your boots.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“That squeak,” Gabriel said, taking half a step forward. “You forgot to replace the rubber sole on your left boot after you stepped in the chemical runoff near bay four this morning. It gave away your position in the lobby, it gave away your position in the tunnels, and it just gave away the fact that you’re standing directly over the secondary pressure valve.”

Arthur looked down instinctively at his left boot—and in that fraction of a second, Gabriel moved.

With blinding speed, Gabriel didn’t draw his gun. He lunged forward, driving his shoulder straight into Arthur’s chest and slamming the older man backward against the thick concrete pillar.