Kieran returned to the mayor and Bruce with a polite smile, phone still in hand.
"Apologies, gentlemen," he said smoothly, voice carrying no hint of urgency. "A matter at the hotel requires my attention. Nothing serious, but I really must see to it."
Mayor Hill waved him off with a laugh. "Duty calls, eh? The curse of responsibility."
Bruce's smile was practiced, though his eyes lingered on Kieran a moment longer, as if probing for cracks.
Kieran bowed his head lightly. "Enjoy the rest of the evening."
He slipped from the ballroom, down the marble steps, past the valet line where limousines waited. Within minutes, his car pulled away from the glittering gala, carrying him back to the Continental.
***
When he stepped into the penthouse the mask dropped. He shed his jacket and tugged the burner free. "Status," he demanded.
Static and coughing on the line. Then, ragged and urgent: "South Tracks are under fire, boss. They're throwing bottles and shooting anyone who tries to move. They're trying to burn us out set the entrance ablaze and pick off anyone who runs."
Kieran didn't hesitate. He moved to the desk, ripped the map free and spread it under the bright lamp. Pins clattered. He set a ring of markers around the mouth of the tunnel, eyes narrowing. The air in the room felt thinner, sharper.
Vey slipped forward like a blade. The voice that answered the comms was surgical, stripped of pretense. "Patch me through to every leader. All channels live."
The line filled—Dre, Naima, Marcy, Stitch—voices spliced with the distant crack of gunfire and the pop of spent casings.
"Naima," Vey said, hand tracing the contour of the rail line on the map, "this isn't a probe. They aren't testing defenses. They're trying to burn the tracks and run us out. You hold the mouth at all costs. Deploy the first line on the flank of the entrance. Fire lanes only no clustering where Molotovs can catch you. If they push, funnel them into the containers. They burn on our terms."
A quick, cold reply, "Holding. We'll keep the fire lanes clear."
"Dre," Vey continued, sliding a pin to the elevated roofs and girders that watched the tracks like teeth, "I see you have two teams on the rooftops near the rail, send your teams above. Suppressive fire on anything moving along the perimeter. Make sure the bastards can't line up a clean throw. Put sharps on the higher angles. If they try to breach with flames, you hit their hands before they pull."
Dre's voice grunted acknowledgment, "Got it. We'll make 'em wish they stayed home."
"Marcy," Vey said, marking fallback corridors, "lock the supply points. Move extra water and extinguishers inbound also make sure the retreat passages are ready Naima and her people might have to make a escape towards you. Triages prepped if the worst happens we patch, move, and re-engage. Don't let panic become contagious."
"Already on it," Marcy answered. "We've got spare barrels and extra covers. We'll seal and rotate."
"Stitch," Vey finished, "control movement in and out. No one runs blind. If people retreat, they retreat on your signal. Keep the exits clear for organized pullouts don't let folks funnel into an open fire. I don't want them dying for lack of direction."
"Understood, boss," Stitch said. The line steadied, a string of hard voices all humming the same orders.
Vey leaned over the map, one finger finding the exact tile of the South Tracks. He spoke slow, the words measured, fatal as a judge's sentence. "They want the rails. Then they'll have to take us from them. We defend, we do not scatter. We drown their fire with ours and with every tool we own. No reckless running, no lone heroics. Burners out. Buckets ready. Every throw counts and every step is planned."
There was no bravado in the channel, only the cold certainty of personnel moved like clockwork. The replies came in short staccato affirmations, the sound of people loading weapons, the click of radios.
From outside the penthouse window the city flashed by, indifferent. Down in the tracks, the smell of gasoline and smoke was already rising. Vey tapped a position on the map and pinched the paper flat as if compressing the chaos into lines he could control.
"Remember," he said—softer now but no less lethal—"we don't die tonight. Not for ground, not for pride. We hold the rails."
The comms went silent as each leader moved, these orders already turning into movement. bodies shifting into positions, extinguishers shoved near entrances, sharps climbing to roofs, the younger generation and the noncombatants pulled back and hid. The attack had a purpose; their response had one too. The war had started born in flames. The Underpass met it with discipline and a whole lot of bullets.
***
The South Tracks stank of gasoline and smoke. Molotov after Molotov had already come crashing down, bursting against the concrete walls of the underpass and lighting the edges of tarps and crates. Naima Rez moved cleanly through the shadows, barking clipped orders, stamping out flare-ups with boots and soaked rags. Her people were coughing, eyes watering, but no one broke formation.
"They think we'll scatter," Naima muttered into the comm at her collar. "They're betting fire and panic will do the job for them. Not tonight."
Another bottle shattered against the barricade, flames licking along the soaked timbers. She snapped her hand downward, and her fighters dropped behind cover on cue, some lying flat, limp, like corpses left to burn. It was a dangerous gamble, but Naima's tone left no room for hesitation.
She tapped her comm again, this time to Dre. "They're coming in. Play it quiet. When they step under the mouth of the bridge, you rain hell from above."
"Copy that," Dre's voice crackled back, low and eager. She could already picture him crouched on a rooftop across the yard, his crew priming bricks, bottles, and rifles for the perfect angle.
Down below, the Hammer Gang advanced. The fire had done its job, at least that's what they thought. Their boots crunched over glass, laughter cutting through the smoke as they crept closer, weapons raised but casual, sloppy. They were ready to shoot stragglers fleeing the fire, not a disciplined defense.
Naima waited, her breath steady despite the sting of smoke. She counted their steps, their swagger, the way they broke formation to kick through debris.
Closer.
Closer.
She lifted two fingers, the signal.
Her fighters snapped up from behind crates and rubble, rifles barking in unison. Gunfire thundered through the underpass, muzzle flashes cutting through the haze. Hammer Gang soldiers dropped in the first volley, shouting in panic as rounds tore into them from impossible angles.
At the same moment, Dre's rooftop crew answered silhouettes leaned out from the steel skeletons above, raining bullets and bricks down into the trapped gang. The air filled with ricochets, shouts, and the sharp stink of cordite mixing with fire.
Pinned in a kill box, the Hammer Gang had nowhere to run. Naima stepped forward from cover, sidearm raised, her voice cutting through the din.
"You wanted the rails?" she shouted coldly. "Come take them!"