Mira looked toward the old dumbwaiter shaft behind the wine wall.
The building had once been a ferry office. During renovations, most of the old maintenance access had been sealed, but not all. Tomas used to sneak cigarettes in the crawlspace during double shifts. Mira had yelled at him for it twice.
“There is another way,” she said.
Kaito followed her gaze.
“The wall?”
“Behind the wine racks. Old service shaft. It drops to the storage level.”
Damon appeared beside them, soaked and bleeding from one eyebrow. “You’re telling me we run into a hole because the waitress says so?”
Mira looked at him.
“I am telling you Elias Rourke expects you to run outside and die on camera so the city can blame Mr. Ren. If you prefer that version, the front door is open.”
Damon stared at her.
Then he barked, “Move!”
For three impossible minutes, enemies worked together.
Kaito’s men pulled the wine racks away from the wall. Damon’s men shoved tables into barricades. Tomas guided the remaining staff toward the hidden shaft. Mr. Hoshino, pale but composed again, helped an elderly woman climb down first.
Mira stayed near the opening, counting people.
“Go,” Kaito said behind her.
“After Tomas.”
Tomas shook his head. “No, absolutely not. I am not doing heroic scheduling.”
“Go.”
“Mira—”
She shoved him toward the shaft. “Clean something downstairs.”
He vanished with a terrified curse.
The fake bomb continued blinking.
Gunfire sounded outside near the front drive.
A trap closing on empty air.
Damon looked almost impressed. “Rourke really did plan for both of us.”
Mira said, “Men like him do not hate criminals. He hates competition.”
Kaito’s gaze rested on her. “And what do you hate?”
The question was absurd in the middle of smoke, blood, and alarms.
Mira answered anyway.
“Being underestimated.”
Something in his expression shifted.
“Then tonight must be satisfying.”
“No,” she said. “Tonight is inconvenient.”
Damon barked a laugh despite himself.
Then the traitor on the floor moved.
His broken wrist hung useless, but his other hand came up holding a small remote.
Mira saw it first.
She lunged.
Kaito fired.
The shot hit the traitor’s shoulder. The remote skidded across the soaked floor, spinning toward the private table.
Damon dove for it.
Outside, the service boat roared closer again.
Mira heard the pitch of the engine and knew what it meant.
“They’re coming under the restaurant!”
Kaito grabbed her by the arm, not gently this time, and pushed her toward the shaft.
“Down. Now.”
The floor bucked beneath them.
Not an explosion. Impact.
The boat had struck the pilings.
The whole Lantern Room groaned like an old ship in a storm. Lights flickered. Plates slid from tables. Somewhere below, wood cracked and metal screamed.
Damon shoved the remote into his pocket. “Move, Ren!”
Kaito waited until Mira entered the shaft.
It was narrow, dark, and smelled of dust, oil, and old wood. She climbed down the iron rungs fast, hands burning, knees scraping the wall. Above her came Kaito. Above him, Damon. Above Damon, the men who had entered as enemies and were now simply survivors.
They emerged in the storage level beneath the restaurant.
Cold harbor air pushed through cracks in the walls. The lower level was half basement, half dock, built over water that slapped against the pilings below. Old crates lined the walls. Emergency lamps glowed red. Everyone looked ghostly.
Tomas hugged Mira so hard she could barely breathe.
“I hate your job,” he said.
“It is also your job.”
“I hate that more.”
Kaito stepped down behind her. Water dripped from his hair onto his collar. A thin cut marked his cheek. His suit was ruined. His eyes were clear.
Damon Strake climbed down last, breathing hard, his face gray with anger.
“We get out through the east maintenance pier,” Mira said. “It comes up behind the fish market.”
Kaito looked at one of his men. “Cars?”
“Two blocks out. Moving now.”
Damon pointed at his own guard. “Call everyone. Nobody touches Ren’s people. You hear me? Nobody. Rourke wanted a war, we give him a funeral instead.”
Mira turned sharply. “No.”
Damon glared. “Excuse me?”
“No funerals. No street war. No revenge shootings. That is exactly what he wants. Bodies create headlines. Headlines create pressure. Pressure gives Rourke emergency control of the port.”
Damon’s jaw worked.
Kaito watched her, silent.
Mira continued, “You want him? Make him visible. Men like Rourke survive because violent men clean up their problems with more violence. Stop being useful to him.”
Damon looked as if he might explode.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
It was not pleasant.
But it was thinking.
“A waitress just told me I’m predictable.”
“Yes.”
“And stupid.”
“I implied useful.”
Kaito’s mouth curved slightly.
Damon pointed at him. “Don’t enjoy this.”