It wasn’t long before the crooks were restrained, bound in one form or another, left groaning, unconscious, or dazed in the aftermath of the fight.

Monsieur Minuit stood rigid, arms folded, his sharp hazel eyes scanning over the defeated gangsters. His posture was solid, unyielding—a man in complete control.

But beneath the calm facade, his body ached.

The fight with O’Hara had taken more out of him than he cared to admit. His ribs felt bruised, his knuckles throbbed, and he could still feel the phantom sting of that axe handle’s impact.

But he wouldn’t let it show.

Wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing weakness.

Instead, he watched as Madame Minuit and Vulpes deliberated, deciding whether grilling the prisoners for information was worth the time—or a waste of it.

Vulpes, moving with her usual precision, grabbed the map off the table and unrolled it, her golden lenses flicking over the circled locations as she committed them to memory.

Satisfied, she rolled it up neatly, offering it to Madame Minuit with an easy gesture.

"Here," she said coolly, "figure it’s better in your hands."

Madame Minuit took it with a nod, her eyes lingering on the map as she traced the remaining marked locations with her fingertips.

Time was ticking.

They had Alfonso Ruso’s potential hiding spots—now they had to decide how to move next.

Vulpes studied the restrained mobsters with an unreadable expression, her eyes sweeping over them, taking in their defeated postures, the tension in their shoulders, the flickers of defiance in some and resignation in others.

Then, she spoke, flat and certain.

"They won’t give us anything. May as well leave them for the police."

There was no hesitation in her tone. She had dealt with men like this before—they were either too loyal, too afraid, or too stubborn to talk. Either way, it would be a waste of time.

Madame Minuit was already one step ahead, pulling out a flip phone from her utility belt, her fingers moving with practiced ease as she dialed a number.

"I know a clean cop," she said, tone matter-of-fact. "We can trust him to make sure these guys get the book thrown at them."

She held the phone to her ear, waiting as the call connected, her eyes still scanning the map, already thinking ahead to the next move.

Time was running short.

They had bigger prey to hunt.

The three vigilantes stepped out into the Montreal night, the distant hum of the city droning in the background as they regrouped outside. The cool air carried the lingering scent of gunpowder and sweat, a reminder of the battle they had just left behind.

Monsieur Minuit was the first to speak, his tone calm but decisive.

"We have multiple locations to check. It’s better if we split up to cover them."

Both Vulpes and Madame Minuit nodded in agreement.

Minuit continued, his gaze flicking between them.

"I’ll scout out the old apartment complex. Seeing as we only have two bikes, you two should share and go check out the dock."

Laura felt her pulse quicken just slightly.

Jean didn’t show it, but she noticed—he was trusting her to go with Vulpes alone. And that, more than anything, made her happy.

It wasn’t about trusting Vulpes—not really.

It was about trusting her.

That had been the real issue, the real problem in his recent attitude. The feeling that he’d been trying to control the situation, control her. But this? This was progress.

"Makes sense," she added, keeping her voice even, professional. "There are more locations spread out over that area."

She turned toward her bike, her movements smooth, measured—but inwardly, there was a small satisfaction settling in her chest.

Vulpes nodded, adjusting the comm unit in her ear.

"Radio in as soon as you find anything."

Then, with the same quiet efficiency as always, she turned on her heel and slid onto the back of Madame Minuit’s bike, adjusting her stance slightly to accommodate the unfamiliar ride.

Engines growled to life, their headlights cutting through the night, and in seconds, the two pairs split off, disappearing into the darkness.

The game, as another great detective had once said, was afoot.

***

The deep growl of the motorcycle echoed through the empty streets as Madame Minuit and Vulpes approached the old docks along the Saint Lawrence River.

The area was a relic of another time, a part of Montreal’s industrial past that had been left to decay as modern shipping hubs expanded elsewhere. Here, the air smelled of salt, rust, and damp wood, a constant reminder that the river had shaped this city long before concrete and steel took over.

Towering cranes loomed like forgotten giants, their once-powerful arms now motionless, rust creeping over their aging metal frames. Old warehouses, long abandoned or repurposed for less-than-legal activities, lined the waterfront, their facades covered in peeling paint and faded company logos from a time when goods flowed freely through these docks.

The piers themselves were uneven, some sections still sturdy, others sagging where the wood had rotted through. The water beneath them lapped softly against the pilings, dark and endless, reflecting the occasional flicker of neon lights from the distant skyline.

As they neared their target, the city’s hum faded, replaced by the low groan of shifting metal, the whisper of the wind cutting through broken windows, and the occasional clang of something unseen falling over in the distance.

This was the kind of place where people disappeared.

Where deals were made, and bodies were dumped.

The dockside warehouses, once filled with trade goods and bustling workers, were now empty shells, the perfect hideout for anyone looking to lie low or conduct business away from prying eyes.

Madame Minuit eased off the throttle, slowing the bike as they neared a cluster of warehouses, some still in partial use, others nothing but hollowed-out skeletons of their former purpose.

Vulpes adjusted her grip slightly, her sharp eyes sweeping the area, taking in every broken light, every stacked shipping container, every potential place to hide.

The air felt heavier here, charged with an unspoken tension, as if the docks themselves held secrets waiting to be uncovered.

This was the kind of place where Alfonso Ruso could easily disappear.

The two vigilantes moved with silent precision, their boots barely making a sound as they traversed the rooftops of the old dockside warehouses. The first location the Irish had marked on their map turned out to be nothing but an empty shell, a place of shadows and silence, forgotten by time.

The next was no different—abandoned crates, rusted metal, and the distant sound of water lapping against the pilings were all that greeted them.

Finally, after sweeping through the last of their marked locations, Vulpes exhaled quietly, straightening as they made their way back toward the bike.

"Looks like he isn’t here," she said, her tone even but edged with quiet frustration.

"Hopefully that narrows down where we will find him," Madame Minuit replied, adjusting one of the straps on her belt.

She hesitated for just a moment, then spoke again, her voice lower, more deliberate.

"Also, I wanted to apologize for my partner. He doesn’t trust easily."

Vulpes gave a small nod, her golden lenses glinting under the sparse moonlight.

"Understandable," she replied, her tone neutral, but with a faint trace of something else beneath it. "No one does, not in the life we’ve chosen."

Madame Minuit let out a slow breath, her fingers momentarily tightening on the handlebars of the bike before she turned to face Vulpes directly.

"I still feel he judged you unfairly."

There was a sincerity in her voice now, something that cut through the professional detachment they had both maintained until now. She wasn’t just saying it to smooth things over—she meant it.

Vulpes met Madame Minuit’s gaze, her golden lenses catching the faint reflection of the distant city lights. She held the moment for just a breath longer than necessary before offering a simple, steady reply.

"I appreciate that."

There was no grand gesture, no lingering emotion in her tone—just genuine acknowledgment, and perhaps, a small measure of understanding between them.

Madame Minuit felt a bit of the tension lift from her shoulders, as if something unspoken had settled between them.

She gave a small nod before turning back toward the bike.

"We may as well go meet up with my partner and figure out our next move."

Without another word, they swung onto the bike, their movements instinctive, practiced.

The engine rumbled to life, its growl cutting through the night as the two vigilantes sped off, disappearing once more into the darkness.

***

They met Monsieur Minuit in a poorly lit alley, the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp casting long, uneven shadows over the pavement.

His report was as disappointing as theirs.

"Nothing," he said, his voice clipped, irritation just barely bleeding through his usually controlled tone. "But at least that narrows it down. Three places left the Irish had marked off."

Vulpes, having already committed the locations to memory, nodded.

"You two have transportation. I’ll scout the closest one and leave the other two to you."

The Midnights exchanged a brief glance before nodding in agreement. Madame Minuit couldn't fault the logic.

"Alright," she said, adjusting her gloves. "Soon as one of us gets a lead, we call in for backup."

No further discussion was needed.

Monsieur Minuit swung onto his motorcycle, Madame Minuit right behind him.

Engines roared to life, and within moments, their taillights vanished into the night, leaving Vulpes alone in the quiet hum of the city’s underbelly.

She exhaled softly before turning toward the fire escapes, her movements smooth as she ascended, disappearing into the heights of Montreal’s rooftops, bound for her destination.

Fleuve Froid Packing sat like a hulking, forgotten beast along the edge of the Saint Lawrence River, its industrial bones weathered by time and decay. From above, as Vulpes moved swiftly across the rooftops, she could see its faded signage, the once-bright white lettering now a grime-streaked shade of yellow, barely legible under the dull glow of flickering security lights.

It was a classic mob hideout—the kind of place where blood washed down the drains both legally and otherwise.

The main slaughterhouse building was a monolithic structure, its walls streaked with decades of rust and neglect, while large ventilation ducts jutted out of its roof like twisted, metal spines. The windows were dirty and reinforced, some covered in grates, others painted over to obscure whatever happened inside.

Adjacent warehouses flanked the main facility, storage spaces for frozen goods and supplies, though Vulpes doubted they were solely for meatpacking. A place like this? Perfect for smuggling.

Below, semi-trucks were parked in a disorganized cluster, some with their backs open, revealing plastic-wrapped crates of processed meat, others more tightly shut, their contents a mystery.

The smell of cold iron and raw flesh lingered in the air, thick even from the rooftops, mixing with the distinct sting of industrial disinfectants. She spotted security cameras, but they were old, poorly maintained—either a sign of complacency or a deliberate ruse, lulling outsiders into underestimating what went on here.

A chain-link fence encircled the perimeter, but it was half-rusted, bent in places where time and force had worked against it. The back loading docks seemed to be the most active area, faint voices carrying from below, muffled by the steady hum of refrigeration units and the distant lapping of the river against the dock pilings.

This place had history, the kind that didn’t just involve livestock and distribution deals.

Vulpes crouched low, surveying the shadows below, her sharp yellow lenses flickering as she calculated her approach.

If Alfonso Ruso was anywhere in Montreal, a place like this was a damn good bet.

Now, she just had to find out.

Vulpes crouched low, peering through the grime-covered skylight, her night vision lenses adjusting, cutting through the dark interior of the slaughterhouse.

A forest of chains and meat hooks dangled from the ceiling, their rusted metal swaying slightly from an unseen draft. Below, the industrial machines loomed like silent, steel monoliths, standing witness to decades of blood, meat, and bone passing through the facility.

Then, she caught it—movement.

Flashlights.

A group of men in suits, their beams cutting through the shadows as they moved slowly, deliberately, their voices low but distinct.

Vulpes tuned in, adjusting her Fox Ears, filtering out the distant hum of the refrigeration units, the creaking of the building settling—until their conversation came into sharp clarity.

One of the men, a burly figure with a thick accent, swung his flashlight through the dark ahead of him, his voice edged with unease.

"You sure about this? The cops, the Irish, the damn capes—everyone wants Cousin Al."

A second voice answered, calm, composed, and unwavering.

"Everything is going according to plan. Just a few more days, and our cousin will be on his way to a vacation in Italy."

A third man let out a low grunt, shaking his head as he adjusted his tie.

"Lucky bastard. Wish Carmine liked me that much."

Vulpes' jaw tightened slightly.

This was it.

She had found Alfonso Ruso’s hiding place.

Vulpes took a steady breath, her fingers tightening around the communicator the Midnights had given her.

"I think I found him. Only a handful of guards, minimal defenses."

There was a beat of silence, then Monsieur Minuit’s voice crackled through the earpiece, his tone clipped, focused but strained.

"I’m a bit tied up—ran into Steel Legion bikers. If you think you can take them, Vulpes, by all means."

She could hear the distant roar of engines behind his words, the unmistakable sounds of a fight unfolding.

Madame Minuit, already on her way to assist her partner after receiving a silent distress call, chimed in next.

Her voice came calm but firm, her breathing steady as she moved across the city.

"My place was a dud. I’m en route to Monsieur Minuit now. Vulpes, I think you should hold tight until we can get there."

But that message never reached her.

The only thing Vulpes heard was static.

She frowned slightly, adjusting the frequency, waiting for something else to come through—nothing.

That wasn’t good.

Still, she didn’t hesitate.

Her reply was simple, measured, and directed at the only person she had heard.

"Understood."

Then, she cut the comms and refocused.

If Monsieur Minuit was busy, and Madame Minuit’s message hadn’t reached her, then that meant she was on her own.

And the way she saw it?

She had a rare opportunity—one she wasn’t about to waste.

Elsewhere…

The roar of motorcycle engines rumbled through the alleyway, their headlights casting long, jagged shadows that flickered and stretched over the pavement.

At the center of it all, Monsieur Minuit stood alone, his dark-clad figure framed by the circle of circling riders, their presence looming, predatory, enclosing him in a cage of chrome and leather.

And at the head of them, seated atop a black, customized cruiser, was Alessandro Dubois.

The Red Baron himself.

The hulking leader of the Steel Nomads exuded a quiet dominance, his broad shoulders relaxed, but his presence unmistakably heavy. He extended a brown envelope toward Minuit, holding it just within reach—a silent invitation, an unspoken agreement.

"That’s for dealing with the Irish," Dubois rumbled, his deep voice carrying the weight of unspoken understandings. "And the bonus for helping the family back in Toronto deal with our fox problem."

Minuit took the envelope slowly, his movements deliberate, calculated.

His fingers brushed over the paper, feeling the weight of the money inside—a transaction sealed in silence, one that held far more than just currency.

It was a deal, an acknowledgment, an understanding between men who operated in the shadows of justice and crime alike.

Minuit nodded once, his expression unreadable beneath his mask.

"One less problem for both of us."

Then, with the practiced ease of a man balancing two worlds, he added, his voice smooth, controlled—measured for effect:

"Now, let’s make this look good for my partner…"

And just like that, the stage was set, the performance about to begin—

A betrayal hidden in plain sight.

Madame Minuit tore through the Montreal streets, her bike’s engine roaring as she weaved through traffic, pushing her machine to its limits.

Her mind was singularly focused—Jean.

She had to get to him.

He was outnumbered, tangled up with the Steel Nomads, and while he was a force to be reckoned with, she couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that something felt off.

But she had no way of knowing the real danger wasn’t Jean’s predicament—it was Vulpes’ trust.

Because at that very moment, her new friend and ally was moving alone, unaware that she wasn’t just walking into danger—

She was dropping feet-first into a trap.

One that had been planned well in advance.

Because that was the thing about Monsieur Minuit.

Everything he did—every decision, every fight, every word—was a move on a chessboard.

And both he and Vulpes knew that in their line of work, the best weapon in a vigilante’s arsenal wasn’t their fists.

It was the ability to think three steps ahead of their prey.

But this time?

Jean hadn’t been hunting criminals.

He had been hunting a fox.