Everyone watched Victoria raise her hand against a helpless elderly woman, but only one waitress dared to stop her—and seconds later, Chicago’s most powerful billionaire walked straight toward them.

The relief flume was an oppressive tube of riveted iron and damp limestone, smelling of cold mud, sulfur, and ancient river water. The sound of lake waves thudded through the curved ceiling overhead like the heartbeat of a monstrous beast. Ice clung to the masonry, forming jagged stalactites that brushed against their tactical helmets as they moved at an urgent jog.

Marco took the vanguard, his weapon light cutting through the thick subterranean mist. Vincent kept pace, ignoring the sharp pain in his injured thigh with sheer, terrifying discipline. Emma covered their rear, her ears straining against the dripping moisture for any sign of following footsteps.

"One hundred meters to the base of the crib," Marco whispered over the throat mic. "I'm picking up seismic vibrations overhead. They’ve already breached the exterior steel door of the crib's deck."

"Hold up," Vincent commanded, raising a fist.

They froze in the damp darkness. Ahead, a faint shaft of artificial yellow light cut through a drainage grating set into the tunnel ceiling. Through the iron slats came the harsh, clipped shouts of mercenaries speaking German and Russian, followed by the metallic clang of heavy machinery being bolted into place.

"They're setting up a directional drilling rig," Marco hissed softly. "They intend to tap into the main intake pipe before the automated shutoff valves can trip."

"Marco, take the secondary utility hatch on the northern ring," Vincent ordered in a low murmur. "Suppress their heavy gunner. Emma, you stay low on the maintenance catwalk and secure the valve controls. I will handle the strike team leader."

Emma looked up through the grate. Shadows moved across the yellow beams of light—men with suppressed submachine guns and heavy thermal optics. "Vincent, there are at least a dozen of them."