Wake up. Shower. Gear up. Sneak out. Head to the rendezvous point with the Midnights.

The Vulpes had a plan, and it went surprisingly quickly—too quickly, in fact. There was no hesitation in her movements, no distractions pulling her away. Her mind was fully locked in on the task ahead, her focus sharper than it had been in days.

Because tonight wasn’t just about the usual work.

Tonight was about making sure **Alfonso Ruso ended up in a cell—**not halfway around the world with a new identity, and definitely not in a pine box courtesy of one of Malone’s hitters.

It was a delicate balance, one that required timing, precision, and just the right amount of interference to ensure that justice, not revenge, won the night.

The Vulpes pulled her mask down into place as she slipped out into the Montreal night, the cool air wrapping around her like an old companion. Time to hunt.

It didn’t take long for Vulpes to make her way across the rooftops, moving like a shadow weaving through the city, her steps silent against the cold concrete. The old warehouse roof they had designated as their rendezvous point loomed ahead, a familiar meeting ground nestled away from prying eyes.

She had only been there a few minutes when she heard it—the low growl of approaching engines.

The Midnights had arrived.

The sound of their motorcycles quieted, replaced by the rhythmic click of boots against metal as they climbed up to join her on the rooftop.

"The hard drive?" Vulpes asked as soon as they approached, her voice even, direct.

Madame Minuit adjusted her utility belt, her tone just as steady when she responded.

"Nothing on his location," she admitted. "However, it did contain some vital information about his offshore accounts."

A small, knowing smile flickered across her lips as she added, "I took the liberty of making sure they were drained dry and donated to a children's hospital."

Vulpes tilted her head slightly, a flicker of amusement crossing her face.

"I count that as a win."

She hadn’t expected that—but she couldn’t help but approve.

Monsieur Minuit’s gaze shifted to Madame Minuit, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly.

"You didn’t tell me you were going to do that."

His tone was even, but Vulpes caught the underlying mix of surprise and mild irritation woven into it.

Madame Minuit simply smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Just a little surprise," she said smoothly. "Figured some good should come from that hard drive."

He studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod, letting it go.

Turning back to Vulpes, he shifted gears.

"We have intel on where the Irish hitters are moving. We might be able to intercept them and put them out of commission."

Vulpes considered that, arms crossed, her sharp yellow lenses flickering slightly as she processed the information.

"That will certainly take some pressure off Alfonso—and off us—if the Irish are dealt with."

Her voice was measured, but she was already thinking ahead, mapping out what this meant for the night’s operation.

"Follow me," Madame Minuit instructed before disappearing over the lip of the building, her counterpart following seconds after.

Vulpes wasted no time, vaulting after them, her landing smooth and controlled as she hit the ground moments later.

"Think fast," Madame Minuit called, tossing a helmet in her direction.

Vulpes snatched it out of the air with ease, her movements fluid as she replied with a smirk, "Always do."

Without hesitation, she slipped the helmet on and swung her leg over the back of Madame Minuit’s bike, settling into the seat behind her.

The moment she was secure, the growl of engines roared to life, slicing through the stillness of the night.

Their headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the road ahead as they peeled out onto the streets, disappearing into the Montreal night—three figures on the hunt, their mission clear, their path set.

***

The Green Maple Social Club—when open—was nothing more than a front for the Leclair-O'Hara family. On the surface, it was a celebration of Irish-Canadian culture, a place where a select clientele could partake in old-world charm and imported Irish brews.

Tonight, however, the public wasn’t welcome.

Behind its closed doors, the real patrons—hardened men who didn’t drink for pleasure but for purpose—occupied the backrooms, their conversations measured, their hands busy checking guns, knives, and ammunition.

At the center of it all stood Casey O’Hara.

A tall man with auburn hair, a scarred face, and a broken nose that had never quite healed right—his very presence told a story of violence. The kind of violence that had shaped him into the man he was today.

His jacket was discarded, sleeves rolled up to expose sinewy forearms, covered in tattoos that spilled across his skin like the ink of his legacy. In front of him, spread across a battered wooden table, was a detailed map of Montreal—several locations circled in bright red ink.

Beside him, one of his men, an older, wiry man with a sharp mustache, slid a revolver into his jacket, his voice tinged with gruff irritation.

"If the Steel Nomads show up again to get in our business, I say we fuckin’ start planting fire bombs on their bikes."

Casey glanced at him, considering the suggestion.

It wasn’t his preferred method—he wasn’t the type to make war unless it was necessary—but he couldn’t argue the effectiveness of a message sent in flames. A bike going up in a ball of fire wasn’t just a threat—it was a warning.

Still, his jaw tightened. "I’d rather catch Ruso and just get this over with." His voice was low, measured, but carrying the weight of pure contempt. "The fact that the Italians are protecting this sleaze makes me sick."

From across the room, another man, broad-shouldered, heavyset, and loading a sawed-off shotgun, let out a scoff.

"Son of a bitch put nine into Sean Malone with a knife, didn’t he?"

"Yeah," Casey muttered, rolling his neck as if the very thought disgusted him. "Over a whore. Then he fucked up a hit because of that fox bitch. Fact that Carmine hasn’t cut him loose pisses me off as much as the fact that he kills like a mad dog, not a professional."

He exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping against the map, his eyes lingering over the circled locations.

They had one goal tonight—to end Alfonso Ruso before he slipped away.

And if the Steel Nomads, the Ruso Family, or anyone else got in their way?

Well, then they’d just have to burn through them too.

The lights flickered, a brief stutter of electricity, before everything went dark in the storage room.

"The fuck?" one of the men blurted, his voice sharp with immediate tension.

A moment of silence followed, thick and uneasy, before another voice answered.

"Power’s out. I’ll go fire up the backup generator."

Casey O’Hara didn’t react immediately, though his jaw tensed just slightly.

Then, with a quick, practiced motion, he clipped a forward-facing flashlight onto his shirt, its beam cutting through the darkness with a steady white glow.

He liked to be prepared.

It was why he had survived this long.

His fingers drummed against his belt, his thoughts moving just as quickly as the men shifting uneasily around him. Power outages happened, but something about this felt... off.

His gut was telling him something wasn’t right.

"Take a few guys with you to get the generator going," he ordered coolly, his voice even, betraying none of the unease settling in his stomach.

A few of his men nodded, moving quickly toward the door, but Casey remained where he was, his flashlight beam sweeping the room once more.

Something wasn’t right.

And if experience had taught him anything, it was that gut feelings like this weren’t to be ignored.

The three men moved cautiously, their boots echoing against the damp concrete floor as they descended into the basement of the club.

One led the way, another followed just behind, and the third brought up the rear, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

The basement was a cluttered mess—stacked boxes, forgotten decorations, and the overflow storage of the Green Maple Social Club. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of old wood, and the shadows played tricks on the walls, distorting shapes and twisting reality.

Something about this place felt wrong, and the men sensed it.

The one leading the group felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, an old instinct honed from years of survival. His hand started to drift toward his gun, fingers brushing the handle—

Then pain exploded in his palm.

He let out a howl, staggering backward, his gun clattering uselessly to the ground. His hand was pinned, a throwing knife buried deep in his flesh, blood dripping between his fingers.

The other two men barely had time to react before the shadows moved.

A large figure lunged forward.

A right cross landed square on the jaw of the man holding the flashlight, sending him crashing into a heap, the beam spinning wildly as it hit the floor.

The second attacker was leaner, faster, her movements a blur—a knee drove brutally into the torso of the next man, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to double over in agony. A moment later, an elbow struck down, smashing the back of his skull, and he crumpled to the ground.

The third man—the last one standing—instinctively reached for his gun with his uninjured hand, sheer adrenaline fueling his reaction.

But he never got the chance.

A figure slipped from the darkness, silent, deadly.

Madame Minuit.

Her night vision goggles flickered a dull green, casting an eerie glow across her sharp features. Another throwing knife gleamed in her gloved hand, ready to strike again.

Before the remaining thug could even clear his holster, a leg swept the back of his knee, forcing his body to fall midair—

Then, in a flash of brutal efficiency, a powerful arm came down, driving him into the concrete floor. His head bounced off the cold ground, and everything went black.

The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was two figures looming over him—

Vulpes and Monsieur Minuit, their silhouettes flickering in the unsteady glow of the fallen flashlight, standing like hunters over their downed prey.

No words were spoken between the three vigilantes—none were needed.

Silence was their trade.

The shadows were their partners.

There was more work to be done before the night was out, and this was just the beginning.

Madame Minuit moved first, her throwing knife at the ready, her body shifting fluidly with practiced precision as she took point.

Vulpes followed, a throwing star slipping effortlessly into her hand, her grip steady, her movements soundless.

Monsieur Minuit took the rear, his steps measured, his presence looming behind them as they crept up the stairs.

As they neared the top, the three split instinctively, slipping into the available cover, eyes scanning the main room.

There—the bulk of the enforcers were waiting.

Unaware.

Unprepared.

The Midnights and the Vulpes moved in sync, predators stalking their prey.

The night had only just begun.

A few flashlights flickered, casting dim, shifting pools of light over the room, illuminating the remainder of the enforcers gathered around a worn wooden table.

One of the men, sensing unease, affixed a flashlight to his pistol, his grip firm as he swept the beam across the darkness.

The light carved through the shadows, washing over storage crates, metal shelves, and old supplies—objects that did little to ease the creeping tension.

But hidden within those shadows—silent, waiting, unseen—were three predators.

Watching.

Calculating.

Ready to strike.

The light swung away, and in that instant, Monsieur Minuit moved.

Deceptively fast. Unnaturally silent.

For a man of his size, he moved with the grace of a puma, a perfect balance of raw power and lethal agility.

Before the man with the gun-mounted flashlight could even react, Minuit was on him, exploding out of the shadows and slamming him into the floor with bone-rattling force. The thug barely had time to let out a choked gasp before the wind was driven from his lungs, his weapon skittering uselessly across the ground.

Panic erupted in the room.

A sawed-off shotgun swung wildly, its barrel locking onto Minuit—

THUNK.

A throwing star buried itself deep into the trigger finger of the man holding it, the steel edge slicing clean through skin and tendon. His scream pierced the chaos, the shotgun falling uselessly from his grip.

Another thug scrambled to draw his revolver, his instincts kicking in too late—

A throwing knife flashed through the dim light.

It buried itself hilt-deep into his wrist, cutting his attempt to reach for his weapon painfully short. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his wound, his breath ragged with pain and disbelief.

But Casey O’Hara did not panic.

Casey O’Hara did not scream.

He was not a man for fear or theatrics, nor a man for loud noises and chaos.

As the onslaught descended upon his men, he ducked low, his sharp instincts and hardened experience guiding him through the storm.

His hand snapped to the table, finding his preferred weapon—a rock-hard ash wood axe handle worn smooth from years of use.

If they wanted to get close, he would oblige them.

Casey shifted his stance, his grip tightening, the solid weight of the ash handle firm and familiar in his hands.

He fell into Bataireacht, the ancient Irish stick-fighting stance, his movements smooth, practiced—the posture of a man who had made a career out of knowing how to dismantle his prey.

The three vigilantes weren’t the only predators in the room.

And Casey O’Hara?

He was more than ready to fight back.

Casey O’Hara didn’t waste movement.

Didn’t spare energy.

He closed the distance in seconds, and the air cracked like a gunshot as the axe handle met armor and flesh.

THWACK.

Monsieur Minuit grunted, staggering slightly as the concussive shockwave of pain radiated through his body. His armored suit was good, but it could only do so much against raw, unrelenting blunt force. The impact rattled his ribs, shaking him down to his bones.

And O’Hara didn’t let up.

He pressed the attack, moving with calculated efficiency, his Bataireacht-trained hands wielding the ash wood handle like a natural extension of his body.

Minuit had fought many men before—brawlers, bruisers, trained killers. But O’Hara?

He was different.

He wasn’t just strong—he was precise, his movements honed by decades of practical violence. Every strike wasn’t just meant to hurt, but to control—to dictate Minuit’s movement, to keep him exactly where O’Hara wanted him.

Minuit tried to mount an offense, shifting his stance, looking for an opening—but every time he moved, O’Hara was a step ahead.

A feint. A sidestep.

Then—CRACK.

The axe handle slammed into Minuit’s shoulder, forcing him to backpedal. O’Hara immediately closed in, delivering another whipping strike toward his ribs, forcing Minuit to react defensively instead of pressing forward.

O’Hara was in control.

Minuit was an excellent boxer, but O’Hara’s reach advantage with the axe handle meant he could dictate the range of the fight.

Whenever Minuit tried to step in, O’Hara punished him with quick, jarring strikes—never committing fully, always keeping the stick moving, always resetting before Minuit could counter.

The fight had only started, and already, Jean was playing catch-up.

Across the room, Vulpes barely dodged another punch, the brass knuckles whistling past her head, close enough that she could feel the wind against her cheek.

She twisted with the momentum, her foot snapping up in a counter-kick, clipping the jaw of the brute in front of her. It staggered him—but only for a moment.

Then, a second man joined in, a knife glinting in his hand.

Vulpes grimaced—now she was fighting two opponents, one with brass knuckles, the other with a blade, both of them experienced enforcers.

She shifted, weaving backward, her mind racing. She needed to be faster. Smarter. More precise.

Meanwhile, Madame Minuit moved through the shadows of the room, counting shots, watching the muzzle flashes, tracking the gunman’s movements.

One. Two. Three.

A pause. A reload.

She sidestepped, keeping low, using cover to her advantage. She just needed one moment, one opening to either get close or land a throw—and the instant she saw it, she was going to take it.

But for now, she played the waiting game.

And in the center of the room, Casey O’Hara was still leading the dance.

Monsieur Minuit gritted his teeth, his breath coming in sharp exhales as he backpedaled, trying to regain some measure of control. His hands snapped to his belt, gripping the handle of his retractable baton—a sleek, tactical weapon meant for precision strikes and control.

But as it snapped out with a metallic click, it felt pathetically small compared to the brutal simplicity of the axe handle swinging toward him.

O’Hara grinned, sensing the disadvantage instantly.

"Cute toy," he sneered, his voice a low, mocking growl as he swung again, the solid ash wood blurring through the air.

CRACK.

Minuit barely deflected the strike, the baton absorbing part of the impact, but the shock still rattled up his arm, numbing his grip for a brief second.

He sidestepped, trying to angle around for a counterattack, but O’Hara was too fast, too efficient—he was leading this fight, dictating the flow, and Minuit was stuck playing defense.

Another swing came—this time, Minuit tried to block it fully.

Bad idea.

THWACK!

The force of the impact sent a jarring vibration up his arm, the baton trembling in his grasp.

O’Hara used the moment of recoil to his advantage, twisting his grip and slamming the handle downward, smashing against Minuit’s wrist.

The baton flew from his grip, clattering against the ground.

"And now, we’re right back where we started," O’Hara said, grinning like a wolf, his stance easy, confident, the axe handle twirling slightly in his hand.

He was relishing his upper hand, his predatory eyes locked onto Minuit, knowing he had him cornered, unarmed, and struggling to keep up.

Minuit’s mind raced. He needed something—anything—to turn this fight around.

The gunman across the room had just finished reloading, his fingers tightening around the grip of his revolver, ready to fire.

Too late.

Madame Minuit moved with surgical precision, her arm snapping up, and a bolas sailed through the air—a perfect arc of spinning steel and weighted force.

CRACK.

The weapon collided with his wrist and revolver in one fluid motion, the weighted steel snapping against his bones. The gun was ripped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.

The gunman barely had time to let out a curse before a sharp kick sent him tumbling backward into the nearest stack of crates.

Vulpes moved in sync with the chaos, her yellow lenses flashing as she dodged another wild slash from the knife-wielding thug.

Then, with a quick flick of her wrist, she struck out—a small, concealed taser in her palm.

A static crackle. A sizzle of electricity.

The thug convulsed, a choked cry escaping his throat as his muscles seized before he collapsed to the floor, completely incapacitated.

She barely had a second before the brass-knuckled thug lunged at her—his rage blinding him, his fist swinging wide.

Vulpes moved like water, sidestepping at the last second, her left hand already primed.

PSSST!

A sharp burst of high-powered pepper spray exploded directly into the man’s eyes.

He screamed.

Staggering backward, clawing at his face, his eyes red and streaming, his cries of agony mixing with curses as he reeled away from her, completely incapacitated.

Vulpes took a steadying breath, spinning the now-empty pepper spray canister between her fingers before letting it drop to the floor.

O’Hara brought the axe handle down hard, aiming to end the fight with one decisive blow—

But Monsieur Minuit was ready.

He had known from the moment he pulled the baton that this fight would put him on the back foot. That against O’Hara’s reach and power, he’d have to give ground to buy himself a real opportunity.

And now, he had it.

The axe handle came down—

And met rope.

A flexible cord, wound tight between Minuit’s hands, caught the descending strike mid-air, turning it aside with a sudden, jarring redirection. The ash handle skidded off-course, its force no longer a weapon, but a liability.

O’Hara frowned as his perfectly-aimed strike missed its mark, the momentum yanked away from him.

Monsieur Minuit shifted, keeping the rope taut, his stance lower, more fluid now.

This fight was no longer about blocking.

It was about control.

O’Hara recovered fast, swinging again, but Minuit redirected the force, rolling the axe handle away from his body with another twist of the rope.

The Irishman gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip, trying to reclaim his dominance—

But Minuit was already a step ahead.

With one sharp pull, he looped the rope around O’Hara’s wrist, snapping it tight like a coiling snake.

O’Hara snarled, yanking his arm back, but Minuit moved with him, using the flex of the cord to guide the Irishman’s own momentum against him, pulling him off-balance.

The axe handle was still a weapon, but now it was one that Monsieur Minuit dictated.

O’Hara swung again—but Minuit let the strike pass him, guiding it just enough that the Irishman overextended, the weight of the axe handle suddenly working against him instead of for him.

The precision, the predictability of O’Hara’s well-trained movements—it was no longer an advantage.

Minuit was using it, twisting the predictability of a rigid weapon against the sheer versatility of a flexible one.

O’Hara grunted, adjusting his grip, but for the first time since the fight started, he was on the defensive.

And Monsieur Minuit had no intention of letting him recover.

It dawned on O’Hara almost too late—the real danger wasn’t the rope.

It was the fact that he was now inside Monsieur Minuit’s reach.

And when you were facing a boxer, that was the last place you ever wanted to be.

Minuit didn’t hesitate.

His fists moved like lightning.

O’Hara barely had time to react before a vicious right hook slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs with a painful grunt.

He tried to pull back, to reposition, but Minuit was already closing in, the rope still tangled around his wrist, ensuring that he couldn’t fully retreat.

Another punch—this time, a brutal left uppercut, snapping O’Hara’s head back.

The Irishman staggered, blinking away stars, but Minuit wasn’t done.

He pressed the advantage, moving in tight, close, suffocating, giving O’Hara no room to breathe, no space to think.

A body shot. Another rib-cracking right.

Each hit precise, each movement designed to punish, to make O’Hara pay for every inch of control he had lost.

O’Hara swung blindly, trying to bring the axe handle back into play—

Minuit simply redirected it again, twisting the rope sharply, pulling O’Hara off-balance once more.

Another gut shot followed, folding O’Hara in half, his grip on the axe handle finally slipping as pain and exhaustion began to catch up with him.

Minuit grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up just enough for one final blow.

A brutal cross to the jaw.

O’Hara dropped, the axe handle clattering uselessly to the floor beside him.

He wasn’t out cold, but he was damn close, his body slumped, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Monsieur Minuit exhaled sharply, shaking out his fists, his knuckles throbbing from the sheer force of the fight.

The fight was over.

And this time, Jean Bellerose had won.