The success of the jewelry heist didn't bring celebration; it brought heat.
Max sat in the back of the Iron Dogs' hangout—a derelict boxing gym in the armpit of the city—cleaning a carburetor. He tried to make himself invisible. The mood in the gym was heavy.
Kaelen was arguing with his lieutenant, a scarred woman named Vara.
"It's too much noise, Kaelen!" Vara shouted, slamming her hand on the table. "You hit a Vittorio front. You think Don Vittorio is going to let that slide? We're ants poking a bear."
"The bear is old, Vara!" Kaelen retorted, his face flushed. "The Syndicate is overextended. If we don't show strength now, the street gangs in the South will eat us alive before the Vittorios even get here. We need resources."
Max listened, keeping his head down. He had learned that the Iron Dogs were the underdogs of the underworld. They were a collection of castoffs, addicts, and unwanted thugs. The Vittorio Syndicate, on the other hand, was corporate. They were precise.
The gym doors swung open. The room went silent.
A young boy, no older than ten, walked in. He was wearing a crisp school uniform. He looked out of place among the heavy bags and the stench of sweat. He walked straight up to Kaelen and held out an envelope.
"For you," the boy said, his voice trembling.
Kaelen took the envelope. "Who gave this to you, kid?"
"A man in a suit. He said... he said the clock is ticking."
The boy ran out. Kaelen tore open the envelope. A single black feather fell out.
The room gasped. Even Silas looked pale.
"What is it?" Max asked Jinx, who was sitting next to him.
"The Black Feather," Jinx whispered, terror in his eyes. "It's a Vittorio death warrant. It means they aren't sending the police. They're sending the Cleaners."
Kaelen crushed the feather in his fist. "Lock the doors," he ordered, his voice low. "Load everything. Everyone stays strapped. War is here."