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.

"Intruder detected in Auxiliary Sector 4," a synthetic voice droned through the bulkhead speakers. "Repressurizing ballast manifolds."

"They've located our heat signatures," Vincent said, pulling Emma through an escape hatch that dropped directly into the cavernous torpedo handling bay.

The bay was cavernous, shadows stretching long across ranks of massive, green-painted Cold War ordnance resting in hydraulic racks. But nestled among the vintage weaponry were modern cruise missile canisters, retrofitted with digital guidance arrays bearing the Sovereign sigil.

"Clear," Emma whispered, her weapon sweeping the darkness between the missile racks.

Suddenly, two crimson laser sights cut through the gloom, painting the center of Vincent's chest.

"Down!" Emma screamed, lunging sideways and knocking Vincent behind a heavy steel ammunition trolley just as high-velocity rounds perforated the air where he had stood.

Three elite operators in tactical diving gear advanced through the narrow aisle between the torpedoes, their weapons firing controlled, rhythmic bursts that chipped sparks off the steel decking.

Vincent leaned out from the low cover, firing three rapid shots. One operative fell backward into the rack, his weapon skittering across the deck. The other two fanned out, attempting to flank them using the acoustic echoes of the metal hull to mask their movements.

Emma scrambled low under the belly of an unmounted torpedo casing. She could hear the wet squeak of tactical boots on the iron grating. Closing her eyes for a split second, she visualized the floor plan her grandfather’s legacy had laid out in her mind.

*Emergency ballast bypass valve: starboard bulkhead, five paces.*

Emma reached out, grasping a heavy brass valve lever, and pulled it down with all her weight.

A burst of superheated steam erupted from the high-pressure relief pipe directly into the path of the advancing flanking guard. The man shrieked as the boiling fog blinded him. Vincent surged out of the shadows like a panther, striking the operative with the butt of his weapon, disarming him in one fluid motion, and driving him into the bulkhead until he went limp.

The final operative raised his carbine toward Emma, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a single round from Vincent's pistol punched through his helmet visor, dropping him instantly to the deck.

Silence returned to the torpedo bay, broken only by the hiss of steam and the deep, rhythmic hum of the submarine's screws turning through the lake.

"You're getting too good at this," Vincent said, offering a hand to pull Emma to her feet.