“Don’t wake her,” the guard whispered, but Gabriel froze when he noticed the baby’s tiny hand gripping Claire’s shirt—and the secret she carried.

The rain had stopped by 3:00 AM, leaving the streets of Chicago slick, black, and reflecting the neon glare of empty storefronts.

The industrial shipping depot off North Avenue was a massive, decaying labyrinth of corrugated steel, rusting shipping containers, and shadowed loading docks. Inside the main office building, half a dozen armed men sat around a folding metal table playing poker, empty beer bottles and cigarette butts littering the floor.

At the head of the table sat Damian Cross—a tall, sleek, snake-like man with slicked-back blonde hair and an expensive gold Rolex shining against his cuff. He was twirling a silver Zippo lighter between his fingers, his expression dark with irritation.

“Where is the call?” Cross muttered, slamming the lighter down on the table. “They were supposed to confirm the boy was secured hours ago. If Miller messed this up—”

“Relax, boss,” one of his enforcers grunted, tossing a pair of cards onto the table. “Miller’s crew is the best. Even if that little accountant gave them some trouble at first, she’s probably feeding fish in the Chicago River by now.”

Cross didn't look convinced. He stood up, walking toward the high, grimy windows that overlooked the central loading bay.

Outside, the darkness was absolute.

Then, overhead, the sodium-vapor security lights along the roofline flickered once.

And died.

The entire warehouse plunged into pitch blackness.

“What the hell?” the enforcer muttered, standing up from the poker table and reaching for his rifle. “Generator trip?”

Before anyone could answer, the reinforced glass skylight fifty feet above them shattered inward with a deafening cascade of glittering shards.

Bang-bang-bang!

Flash-bang grenades dropped through the opening like falling stars, detonating upon impact with blinding, magnesium-white fury and a concussive shockwave that rattled the metal walls down to their foundations.

“Ambush! Ambush!” someone screamed.

Before Cross’s men could even raise their weapons toward the ceiling, the side loading doors were blown inward with heavy breaching charges. Smoke billowed across the floor in thick, choking white clouds, and out of the shadows stepped Gabriel Kane.

He wasn't wearing his suit jacket now. He wore a heavy tactical vest over a black turtleneck, twin Beretta pistols raised in a textbook combat stance. Behind him poured twenty of his most lethal enforcers, moving with terrifying, synchronized precision.

The firefight was short, brutal, and utterly one-sided.

Cross’s men tried to scatter toward the back exits, but Mason and his tactical teams had already welded the exterior doors shut from the outside. Within ninety seconds, the gunfire stopped. The only sound left in the cavernous warehouse was the groaning of twisted metal and the soft, steady hiss of fire-suppression sprinklers kicking on overhead.

Gabriel walked slowly across the blood-slicked concrete floor, stepping over discarded rifles and groaning mercenaries.

He found Damian Cross pinned beneath a heavy steel pallet, his expensive suit ruined, blood trickling down his forehead from a shrapnel scratch, and a look of sheer, unadulterated terror frozen on his face.

Gabriel stopped standing over him. He slowly holstered his sidearms, reached down, grabbed Cross by the collar of his shirt, and hauled him up effortlessly, slamming him back against a stack of wooden crates.

“K-Kane,” Cross gasped, clawing at Gabriel’s thick forearms. “Wait—let’s talk. We can make a deal—territory, ports, cash—”

“You had your chance to talk when you ambushed my family,” Gabriel said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

“I didn't want the boy dead!” Cross choked out, his eyes wide with panic. “I just wanted leverage! Someone inside your own company gave us the route! Someone told us where the transport would be!”

Gabriel’s grip tightened. “I already know about the leak, Damian. I also know you sent your men to hunt down a civilian who had nothing to do with our war.”

“She beat up three of my best guys with a fire extinguisher!” Cross cried out, hysteria creeping into his voice. “She’s not a civilian, she’s a demon!”

Gabriel let out a dark, humorless chuckle that sounded like grinding stones.

“You’re right about one thing,” Gabriel whispered, leaning in close until his face was inches from Cross’s nose. “She’s no ordinary woman.”