Eight-year-old Ivy Sterling stood at the checkout counter of Prescott’s Gourmet Market,

The alley off 14th Street was choked with dust and the sharp odor of pulverized plaster.

Two municipal police cruisers were parked crosswise at the entrance of the alley, their emergency lights flashing lazily against the wet brick walls. Arthur pulled his armored black Mercedes sedan up to the curb, killed the engine, and stepped out into the damp chill.

Marcus materialized from the shadows of an adjacent fire escape, wearing a nondescript black tactical jacket, a communication earpiece nestled in his left ear.

“They’ve been at it for thirty minutes, Arthur,” Marcus reported in a low murmur. “Pike and three heavies. They’ve gutted the back bedroom and the crawlspace. They’re getting frustrated. Pike’s on the phone with Victor right now—I can hear him shouting from the street.”

Arthur adjusted his cuffs. “The patrol officers?”

“On Victor’s payroll,” Marcus said simply. “They’re claiming a municipal structural hazard to keep bystanders and reporters away.”

“Good,” Arthur said. “Let’s go have a word.”

Arthur walked toward the mouth of the alley with long, measured strides. One of the uniformed officers stepped forward, his hand resting casually on the butt of his sidearm.

“Area’s closed, pal,” the officer barked, holding up a gloved hand. “Condemned structure. Move along before I cite you for trespassing.”

Arthur didn’t stop. He walked straight up to the officer, stopping mere inches from his chest. The officer looked up, startled by the sheer size of the man and the cold, unblinking authority in Arthur’s gaze.

“Officer Higgins, isn't it?” Arthur said, glancing at the brass badge pinned to the man’s jacket. “I suggest you get back into your cruiser, turn off those lights, and call your precinct commander. Ask him if he wants the Pendelton Foundation to revoke the forty-million-dollar pension endowment we granted to the Fraternal Order of Police last November.”

The officer’s mouth opened slightly. The color drained from his face. “You’re… Mr. Pendelton?”

“Get out of my way,” Arthur said softly.

The officer stepped back as if burned. He grabbed his partner’s sleeve, and within twenty seconds, both cruisers were backing down the street, their sirens silent, leaving the alley completely clear.

Arthur and Marcus walked down the narrow passage, stepping over debris, and entered the rotting frame of the house.

Inside, the air was thick with white gypsum dust. The sound of sledgehammers splintering lath and wood echoed from the back bedroom. Arthur stepped into the main room, his eyes scanning the floor.

There, resting half-submerged in a puddle of dirty water near the collapsed sofa, was a threadbare gray stuffed rabbit, its left ear torn and its stuffing leaking from a seam along its spine.

Arthur stepped forward, bent down, and picked up the toy.

Through the thin cotton fabric of the rabbit’s belly, his fingers felt something hard, flat, and rectangular—encased in a heavy-duty, waterproof military-grade plastic casing.

“Who the hell are you?”

A harsh voice cut through the dust.

Donald Pike stood in the doorway of the bedroom, a heavy iron pry bar in his gloved hand. He was a broad, thick-necked man with a scarred jaw and dead, cynical eyes. Behind him, two large men covered in drywall dust stepped forward, their fists clenched.

Pike looked at Arthur’s tailored coat, then glanced down at the stuffed rabbit in his hand. His eyes widened as the realization struck him.

“Well, look at that,” Pike sneered, his grip tightening on the iron bar. “The big-shot philanthropist playing with dolls. You must be Pendelton. Victor said someone with too much money was sticking his nose into family business.”

“Victor Sterling doesn't have a family,” Arthur replied calmly, slipping the stuffed rabbit into his deep coat pocket. “He has victims. And his time is up.”

Pike laughed, a wet, ugly sound. “You think you’re walking out of this dump with that, old man? Nobody knows you’re here. By tomorrow morning, this whole block is getting bulldozed by the city. You’ll just be another tragic casualty of a structural collapse.”

Pike signaled to the two men behind him. “Take him. Leave the body in the basement.”

The two men lunged forward.

They never reached Arthur.

Marcus moved with blinding, terrifying efficiency. He stepped out from the doorway, ducked under the first man’s wild swing, drove an open palm directly into the man’s solar plexus, and seized his wrist in an agonizing joint-lock. There was a sickening *pop*, followed by a high-pitched scream as the attacker was hurled face-first into the splintered floorboards.

The second man froze, reaching for a weapon inside his jacket, but Marcus was already upon him. A brutal elbow strike to the jaw snapped the man’s head back, followed by a sweeping low kick that sent him crashing against the cast-iron radiator, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Pike was left standing alone, his face pale, the pry bar shaking in his hand.

Marcus stepped back, hands clasped behind him, breathing steadily as if he had merely dusted off a shelf.

Arthur stepped toward Pike, his presence suffocating the small room. Pike backed up until his spine hit the crumbling plaster wall.

“Tell Victor,” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a whisper that cut deeper than any blade, “that Sarah Sterling will see him in court tomorrow. And tell him to bring the best lawyers he can buy. Because he is going to spend the rest of his life in a concrete cage.”