The law offices of Schwartz & Goldstein hardly looked like the sort of place that helped launder dirty money and keep tabs on Italian mobs legal entanglements. No, it looked like a downright respectable Montreal law firm office. Then again, the Vulpes thought to herself as she observed it from an adjacent rooftop with her binoculars, if it didn’t look respectable, it would be a rather poor law office. Her grandfather, the Silver Fox, had drilled that lesson into her early. Blend in, Coraline. Appearances are everything. A bitter smile touched her lips. Grandfather would have loved this. A high-profile law firm, whispers of mafia connections…it was exactly the kind of target he would have relished.
She adjusted her binoculars, focusing on the main entrance. The stream of people entering and exiting was a mix of lawyers, clients, and administrative staff. Nothing immediately stood out as suspicious. Just like any other respectable law firm, she thought. But she knew better. Appearances could be deceiving. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Schwartz & Goldstein. Partners in crime, or just good lawyers doing their job? The question echoed in her mind. She had her suspicions, the Midnights had told her as much and she was willing to trust them on this. What she needed was a lead that might help her and the Midnights find whatever safe house Alphanso Ruso was hiding out in.
A man in an expensive suit emerged from the side entrance, clutching a briefcase. He glanced around nervously before slipping into a waiting car. Vulpes zoomed in with her binoculars, trying to get a better look at his face. Could that be…no, too blurry. She activated the Fox Ears in her mask, hoping to pick up any snippets of conversation. But the street noise was too loud, drowning out any faint sounds.
Observation wasn’t getting her anywhere, but thievery well that might be another story. She smirked just slightly lept from the ledge she was on clamouring down the fire escapes and gutters and with one small jump landing in a back alley that was across the street to the law firm. The alley was strewn with refuse and had a smell she could only describe as bracing but it provided the cover she needed to get a good eye on the office's entry points.
The law offices of Schwartz & Goldstein were a study in contrasts, a polished facade masking the grimy realities Vulpes knew lurked beneath. From the street, the building projected an air of order and stability, a respectable brick edifice with dark, reflective windows that offered no glimpse into the secrets within. It was a performance, designed to impress clients and project an image of success. But from the alley, it was just another brick in the wall, its secrets hidden behind locked doors and shadowed windows. The irony wasn't lost on Vulpes. Respectability was a performance, and she was here to see what went on backstage.
The main entrance, facing the street, was a well-lit, heavily monitored gauntlet, complete with security cameras and a watchful doorman. The very fact there was a doorman at this hour of the evening gave her pause. What could they be up to in there that they needed a guy watching the door? This piqued her interest. Now she practically had to break in. It was a fortress of legal paperwork and hidden agendas. But from her vantage point in the alley, Vulpes could see the building's vulnerabilities. The side entrance, near the loading dock, was less conspicuous, its single security camera angled poorly, leaving a blind spot near the door. It was an oversight, perhaps, but it was enough. Vulpes knew that even the most secure buildings had weaknesses, and she was adept at finding them. Given the ground-level security, this was going to be what her granddad would have called a "second-story job."
"Second-story job," she mused to herself, the old cat burglar's term echoing in her mind. It was a name whispered in hushed tones among thieves, a designation for any break-in that wasn't a simple smash-and-grab at street level. It implied a different kind of skill, a need for agility and a tolerance for heights. Second-story men (and women) were the acrobats of the criminal world, scaling walls and navigating rooftops with a grace that bordered on the supernatural. Grandfather would have called it an art form. And he would have loved this one, she thought.
She took up the small spool of ultra-strong, lightweight cable from her utility belt and attached it to a grappling iron. She could have used her grappling launcher, but that made noise, and noise was the enemy of stealth. No, a good old-fashioned toss was a much quieter way to ascend, and the rumble of cars on the nearby highway would provide the perfect cover. All she had to do was get close, take advantage of the cameras' blind spots, and… well, the rest was just a matter of skill and a little bit of luck.
Stealth wasn't just about being quiet; it was an art of misdirection, a dance between shadow and light. It was about breaking lines of sight, becoming a ghost in plain view, and using the environment to your advantage. And right now, her environment consisted of a busy Montreal street, a suspiciously well-guarded law firm, and her ever-faithful ally—the night itself.
A transport truck rumbled past, a behemoth of noise and flickering lights, and she took it as her cue. Big, loud things always made for excellent cover. A few graceful leaps, a quick flip she threw in for the sheer pleasure of it, and she was across the street, hunkered down near a dumpster nestled perfectly within the rear security camera's blind spot.
The Vulpes might not admit it, but this was one of the parts she loved best about what she did: the stealth, the cunning, the thrill of outfoxing the kind of people who thought they were untouchable.
She counted the seconds, waiting for the next perfect distraction. This time, it came in the form of a steady stream of traffic, the sounds of passing cars a rhythmic hum that would perfectly muffle the subtle thwack of her grappling iron finding purchase after a perfectly thrown line. The cable sang out, a whisper against the backdrop of the city's din, and she tested the line, a slight tug confirming it was secure. With a smooth, practiced motion, she began her ascent, her movements fluid and silent, a shadow climbing the wall. The rough brick scraped against her suit, but she paid it no mind. Her focus was on the rooftop, her target, the secrets hidden within the law firm's walls.
She noted as she climbed the telltale signs that the windows wouldn't be a good entry point; they were wired with sensors. Cutting the glass and climbing in was out of the question. This law firm certainly invested in its security measures. That just left the roof and either the rooftop door or the ventilation system.
She pulled herself up onto the roof, the rough surface scraping against her boots, and pushed a small button on her gauntlet, the cable spool retracting the line automatically with a quiet whir. She surveyed the rooftop, her eyes scanning the area for any signs of intrusion. The roof was mostly flat and featureless, dotted with ventilation units and access hatches. The rooftop door, likely leading to a stairwell or elevator shaft, was her primary target, but she didn't dismiss the vents as a potential entry point. They were often overlooked, a vulnerability in even the most secure buildings, and Vulpes was nothing if not thorough. She moved silently across the rooftop, her footsteps muffled by the soft soles of her boots, heading towards the door.
The rooftop security was lax compared to the ground floor; not many people expected anyone to go to the kind of effort it took to climb up the side of an office building. All that stood between her and entry was the lock on the door, and more than likely, some kind of silent alarm. She wasn't going to assume this was going to be easy. Kneeling, she examined the door for any telltale signs that unlocking it would alert whoever was inside and felt the need to keep eyes on the doors. A thin wire running along the frame, a subtle pressure plate near the hinges—these were the kinds of traps she was looking for. She ran her fingers lightly over the doorknob, feeling for any unusual resistance or give. Nothing obvious. But that didn't mean anything. The best security measures were often the ones you couldn't see.
She pulled a collapsible slim jim and a set of lock picks from her utility belt. This was going to be a delicate operation. She inserted the slim jim into the lock, feeling for the tumblers, the subtle clicks and shifts that would tell her she was making progress. It was a slow, meticulous process, requiring patience and a steady hand. She didn't want to trigger any alarms, and she certainly didn't want to damage the lock, which would leave evidence of her intrusion. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, but she remained focused, her senses heightened, attuned to the slightest vibration or sound. The city hummed around her, a constant backdrop of noise and activity, but up here, on the rooftop, she was in her own world, a world of shadows and secrets.
Her augmented hearing picked up the sound every thief loved: the telltale soft click of a lock perfectly cracked. She slowly, silently eased the door open. She was one step closer to finding Alfonso Ruso, or so she hoped.
Vulpes adjusted her yellow lenses, her low-light vision amplifying the ambient light filtering in from the open doorway. The elevator shaft and a stairwell loomed ahead, and Vulpes's only question was which way to take. She weighed her options carefully. The elevator would be faster, but it also carried the risk of being trapped if it was remotely monitored or disabled. The stairwell, on the other hand, was a more traditional, albeit slower, route. It offered more control, more opportunities to observe and react. Stairwell, she decided. It was the safer bet. She slipped through the doorway, closing it silently behind her, and stepped into the dim, echoing space.
She moved silently down the stairs, her mind racing, debating where she could find information on Ruso's whereabouts, and maybe some incriminating data. Because if there was one thrill greater than breaking and entering, it was seeing justice done, and dragging a dirty law firm's laundry out into the light would be icing on the cake. Ruso's location is the priority, she reminded herself. But if she happened to stumble upon evidence of other illegal activities...well, that would just be a bonus. She reached the first floor. The quiet hum of the building's ventilation system filled the air. She wasn't in Toronto, didn't have John's support, so she would have to make educated guesses. Which meant she was going to do this the old-fashioned way. Boots on the ground, she thought, eyes peeled, ears open. No digital backup, no fancy tech to rely on. Just her instincts. No floor plans, no inside intel from John. Just what she could glean from observation and a gut feeling.
At least she still had her gadgets; they were an edge she was glad not to have to give up for this mission. She tapped the pointed ears on her mask, adjusting them and the level of sound they picked up until she caught muffled voices. She had been right; someone was here tonight, and very likely up to no good. As much as she wanted to crack one of their computers and play hacker, playing spy might be more fruitful. She focused on the sounds, triangulating their origin down the hall, and her eyes went to a vent. Ah, good old vents, she thought. My favorite way to creep around a building. It was a classic infiltration tactic, and one she had practiced countless times. Silent, unseen, and often overlooked. She approached the vent, checking for any signs of tampering or alarms. Nothing. She carefully removed the vent cover, placing it silently on the floor. The air flowing from the vent was stale and dusty, but it carried the faint scent of…cigar smoke? That was interesting. She slipped into the vent, the narrow space a familiar squeeze.
A group of men in expensive suits stood in a lavishly appointed office, their faces hard, their postures radiating the kind of casual menace that suggested a familiarity with broken kneecaps. They were watching a short, pasty man with soda-bottle-thick glasses, his spidery fingers tapping furiously at a computer keyboard.
"Hurry up," growled one of the made men, his voice thick with impatience. "We need that cash, and we need it yesterday. The longer Carmine's boy stays in Montreal, the sooner those damn Paddies send a hitter in!" He paced back and forth, the polished heels of his shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. "And we all know what happens then. This whole city goes up in flames." He gestured impatiently at the man at the computer. "So move it, or I'll find someone who can."
The small man, his thick glasses practically goggles, gulped, his pale skin flushing crimson. "Y-yes, Monsieur Rizzo," he stammered, his fingers flying across the keyboard with renewed urgency. "I will have the money moved post-haste." A hint of fear, sharp and palpable, quivered in his voice. He didn't dare look up, his gaze fixed on the screen, his every movement dictated by the unspoken threat hanging in the air.
Monsieur Rizzo nodded, a curt, dismissive gesture. He rolled his thick neck, a small pop echoing in the otherwise tense silence of the office. He was a large man, his suit straining at the seams, his face a roadmap of past brawls and hard living. He exuded an aura of raw power, the kind that came not from wealth or status, but from a deep-seated understanding of violence. He didn't need to raise his voice, didn't need to make explicit threats. His presence alone was enough to command obedience, to instill fear. He glanced around the room at the other men, his gaze lingering on each of them for a beat too long, a silent reminder of their shared responsibility. "Make sure everything is clean," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "No loose ends. No mistakes."
The man hunched over the computer nearly paled another few shades at the mention of "no loose ends," as if the thought of him being considered one had suddenly become very real. His fingers trembled slightly as he typed, his gaze darting nervously towards Rizzo and his three cohorts. Rizzo and his men, however, seemed completely unbothered by the man's apprehension. They were used to this kind of fear, even expected it. It was a tool, a lever they used to ensure compliance. They exchanged glances, nods, subtle shifts in posture, communicating in the silent language of shared power and casual brutality. They were predators, and the man at the keyboard was prey.
Vulpes watched all of this, taking it in from her hiding place in the vents. The air was thick with tension, the unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air. She recognized the dynamic immediately. It was a familiar one in the criminal underworld: the powerful exploiting the vulnerable, the strong preying on the weak. She'd seen it countless times before, both in Toronto and now here in Montreal. But this time, it was personal. These men, these thugs in expensive suits, were connected to Ruso, and by extension, to the violence that threatened to engulf the city. She clenched her fists, a surge of anger coursing through her veins. She had a score to settle, and these men were going to help her do it. She just needed to gather more information, to understand the full scope of their operation, before she made her move. The mention of "Carmine's boy" and the "Paddies" had piqued her interest. It confirmed her suspicions about the Irish Syndicate's involvement, Alfanso Ruso, Carmines Nephew as definitely hiding in Montreal and the Irish still a held a grude against him and would stop at nothing to see their blood fued settled.
Vulpes watched all of this, taking it in from her hiding place in the vents. The air was thick with tension, the unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air. She recognized the dynamic instantly. It was a familiar one in the criminal underworld: the powerful exploiting the vulnerable, the strong preying on the weak. She'd seen it countless times before, both in Toronto and now here in Montreal. But this time, it was personal. These men, these thugs in expensive suits, were connected to Ruso, and by extension, to the violence that threatened to engulf the city. She clenched her fists, a surge of anger coursing through her veins. She had a score to settle, and these men were going to help her do it. She just needed to gather more information, to understand the full scope of their operation, before she made her move. The mention of "Carmine's boy" and the "Paddies" had piqued her interest. It confirmed her suspicions about the Irish Syndicate's involvement; Alfonso Ruso, Carmine's nephew, was definitely hiding in Montreal, and the Irish still held a grudge against him, a blood feud they would stop at nothing to settle.
Vulpes heard hurried footfalls approaching the office door, followed by the sound of it being thrown open. "We got news," a breathless voice announced. "The capes are onto us!"
Vulpes grimaced slightly. Had the guy the Midnights had shaken down for information ratted them out? It was the only explanation she could think of for the mobsters' sudden awareness. That meant her eavesdropping was about to be cut short. But it also meant she might get her chance to be alone with that computer and its hard drive soon. You lose some, you win some, she mused to herself, a pragmatic shrug settling over her. The sudden urgency in the room was palpable. The men were no longer relaxed, their earlier bravado replaced by a nervous energy. Rizzo barked out orders, his voice sharp and clipped. "Get the money out of here! Now! And double-check everything. We can't leave anything behind." He turned to the man at the computer. "Did you get the account numbers?"
The man, his face now slick with sweat, nodded quickly. "Yes, Monsieur Rizzo. They're encrypted, but I have them."
"Good," Rizzo snapped. "Now wipe everything. Make sure there's nothing that can link us to Carmine, or to Ruso. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," the man stammered, his fingers flying across the keyboard once more.
Time to move, Vulpes thought. This was her chance. The commotion would provide cover for her to slip out of the vent and access the computer. She just needed to time it right, to wait for the perfect moment when everyone was distracted. She could almost taste the information on that hard drive, the evidence that would expose their crimes and bring them to justice. It was a risk, but it was one she was willing to take.
Time to snatch and grab, another lovely term she had learned from her grandfather, the Silver Fox. It was more than just stealing; it was about speed, precision, and a touch of theatricality. Grandfather had always said a good snatch and grab was like a magic trick – the audience never saw it coming. Her target was the slim tower PC sitting beneath the office desk, the one housing the hard drive she craved. It had to be done before anything was deleted. She had to act fast. A little shock and awe, and then out the door with the tower – that was the plan. She waited for the precise moment, the peak of the chaos when everyone was scrambling, their attention focused elsewhere.
Silently, she removed the vent covering and tossed out her party starter: a small, dark sphere that rolled silently across the floor. Two and a half seconds later, a hiss erupted, and the room was plunged into a thick haze of smoke that clung at eye level, obscuring everything below. That was her cue. She moved like a phantom, slipping from the vent and melting into the smoky chaos. She wouldn't have long.
The goons coughed and sputtered, cursing loudly. One shouted, "Fire?!" Another answered, "It must be the Midnights!" Vulpes noted that her partners from Montreal must use tactics not unlike her own—another point in their favor. She had to be fast, had to move like a ninja to get that hard drive, but those were two things she excelled at. The smoke stung her eyes, but her mask's filters protected her. She navigated the smoke, using the cover to her advantage. The coughing and shouting disoriented the mobsters, making them easy targets, but she wasn't here to tangle with them. Her focus was on the computer. She reached the desk, her fingers already disconnecting the cables. The tower was light, easily portable. She grabbed it, tucked it under her arm, and slipped back into the vent, leaving the goons to their panicked confusion. She had the hard drive. Now, she just needed to get out.
She dashed towards the stairwell door, her free hand opening one of her pouches, spilling a trail of caltrops onto the floor. They were small, sharp, and coated in something non-lethal, but decidedly unpleasant—a fast-acting irritant derived from the ghost pepper, guaranteed to deliver a burning sensation and temporary muscle cramps, chipping away at her pursuers' endurance. It wasn't about inflicting serious harm; it was about creating a distraction, a momentary advantage. She needed every second she could get. She glanced back as she reached the door, seeing the mobsters emerging from the smoke-filled office, their faces contorted in anger and confusion. The caltrops crunched under their feet, eliciting curses and yelps. It wouldn't stop them, but it would slow them down, give her the precious head start she needed. She pushed open the stairwell door and slipped through, the heavy door swinging shut behind her, cutting off the sounds of their frustrated pursuit. She descended quickly, two steps at a time, her boots muffled against the concrete stairs. She could hear them shouting behind her, their voices echoing in the stairwell, but they were a step behind, their progress hampered by the caltrops. She had bought herself some time. Now, she just had to make it count.
A security camera started to swivel towards her, its unblinking eye tracking her movement. A throwing knife, thrown with deadly accuracy, thunked into the lens, shattering the image and silencing its gaze. Vulpes didn't have time for subtle maneuvers; she needed to get that hard drive. Yanking it out of the PC tower and slipping it into her pouch was her priority, and she didn't have long. She glanced up the stairs, then down, and sprinted ahead, her movements fluid and purposeful. The mobsters, despite the burning pain from the caltrops, pressed on, their anger fueling their pursuit. "Who the hell was that?" snarled one, his voice echoing in the stairwell. "She wasn't one of the Midnights!" "How the hell should I know?" snapped another, his hand instinctively going to the pistol tucked in his waistband. "Looked like she had fox ears!" They emerged into the stairwell, unholstering their weapons, their eyes scanning the shadows. "She's fast," one of them muttered, "but not fast enough." They spread out, their footsteps heavy on the concrete steps, the hunt intensifying.
"She must have come in from the roof!" one of the mobsters yelled to his comrades, his voice echoing in the stairwell. They turned and followed him up the stairs, their heavy footsteps pounding against the concrete. They burst onto the rooftop, their eyes scanning the empty expanse. The unlocked door stood open, a silent invitation, but there was nothing to be found. Frustration etched on their faces, they realized they'd been tricked. One of the men started back down the stairwell, cursing in a trilingual mix of French, Italian, and English, his anger growing with each step. Then, at the bottom of the stairwell, he saw it: a broken computer tower, its side panel ripped open, the hard drive expertly extracted. The Vulpes hadn't gone up; she had gone down, using their frantic search as cover to get what she needed and ditch the bulky tower.
"Clever little fox…" the words dropped from Rizzo's lips, a mix of curse and grudging respect. He stared at the broken tower, his jaw tightening. He knew he'd been outmaneuvered, outsmarted by someone who was clearly a professional. He glanced at his men, their faces mirroring his own frustration. "She got what she wanted," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "And she made us look like fools." He picked up the broken tower, turning it over in his hands. "Find her," he growled, his eyes hardening. "And make sure she doesn't get away with this."
Just like a fox, the Vulpes had gone to ground. The vents were, yet again, her salvation, a familiar labyrinth she navigated with ease as she moved towards the building's basement. She wasn't sure she would have an easy escape, but there should be plenty of places to hide, and her pursuers would be spreading out in desperation, their search becoming less coordinated, more frantic. Just like a pack of hounds on a fox's trail, she thought to herself, a faint grin tugging at the corners of her lips. She could almost hear them above her, their heavy footsteps echoing through the building, their frustrated shouts growing fainter as she moved deeper into the building's underbelly. The basement was a maze of pipes, storage rooms, and forgotten corners, a perfect place to disappear. She just needed to find the right exit, a way out that wouldn't lead her straight into their waiting arms. She paused, listening intently. She could hear them now, their voices echoing from the floor above. They were still searching, still convinced she was somewhere in the building. They wouldn't expect her to head down, to move towards the most vulnerable part of the building. It was a gamble, but it was a gamble she was willing to take.
The worst part was being so far from home. She had to be downright conservative with her tools. She couldn't just pop back to the Fox Den and resupply like normal. Otherwise, she might have lobbed a gas grenade into the mix by now. No, she had to use her resources carefully because between now and when she brought Alfonso Ruso in for the RCMP to lock him up for twenty-five to life, she had to conserve every weapon in her arsenal. Every gadget, every trick, every last ounce of her strength and cunning.
She pushed a vent open and dropped silently into the basement. It looked older than the offices above, a stark contrast to the polished veneer of the law firm. All steel, pipes, and industrial charm, it looked like it hadn't been changed much since the Second World War. The air was thick with the smell of damp concrete and rust, a musty odor that clung to everything. Dim lights flickered overhead, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched across the concrete floor. It was a maze of pipes and machinery, a labyrinth of forgotten corners and hidden alcoves. Perfect for hiding. She landed softly on her feet, her senses on high alert. She knew they wouldn't give up easily. They'd be searching for her, their pride wounded, their profits threatened. She had to find a way out, and fast.
She glanced around the basement, scanning for exits or anything she could use to slow down her pursuers. There wasn't much she could work with here; the basement was stark and utilitarian, lacking the clutter and debris she often used to her advantage. She did spy an exit, unfortunately, it was also the only way in or out. She assumed she wouldn't have long before one of the thugs poked their head down here, their hunt leading them to the building's underbelly. She needed a plan, and she needed it fast. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for anything she could use, any advantage she could exploit. The pipes overhead offered a potential escape route, but they were high and slick, a risky climb. A stack of crates in the corner might provide some cover, but they wouldn't stop anyone determined to find her. She needed something more, something that would buy her time. Her gaze fell on a metal cabinet tucked away in a dark corner. It was old and rusty, its door hanging slightly ajar. She moved towards it cautiously, her senses on high alert. It was a long shot, but it was the only option she had at the moment.
A thug named Ronny paused at the basement door, his hand gripping his revolver tightly. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and slowly pushed the door open. The basement stretched out before him, a maze of pipes and shadows, the gloom swallowing the weak light from the stairwell. He squinted, his eyes struggling to penetrate the darkness. Nothing. Just pipes, shadows, and the musty smell of damp concrete. He took a step inside, his senses on high alert. Then, a blur of motion, a sudden weight on his back, and her legs locked around his throat, squeezing tightly, cutting off his air. He flailed, his hands clawing at her legs, his gun falling to the concrete floor with a clang. But the Vulpes didn't let up. She squeezed tighter, her grip unyielding, her strength surprising. His struggles grew weaker, his face turning a mottled purple. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring. He started to go slack, his body slumping downwards, the Vulpes riding him down until they both hit the cold concrete with a thud. She released her hold, stepping away from his unconscious form. His gun lay a few feet away, a useless weight on the floor. She picked it up, removed the firing pin and emptied it of bullets, no need for someone else to pick it up.
She dashed up the stairs and towards the fire exit, the heavy metal door a beacon of freedom in the dimly lit stairwell. She would be outside soon, melting back into the Montreal night, leaving the remaining thugs empty-handed and her with a hard drive that held vital information in the hunt for the mafia hitman hiding somewhere in the city. Not a half-bad heist, if she did say so herself. She reached the fire exit, the cool night air a welcome change from the stale, musty atmosphere of the basement. She pushed the crash bar, the door swinging open with a groan, and stepped out onto the fire escape. The city stretched out before her, a sprawling tapestry of lights and shadows. She took a deep breath, the crisp night air filling her lungs. She had what she came for. Now, all that was left was to disappear, to vanish back into the urban jungle, leaving no trace behind. She glanced back at the building, the dark windows concealing the chaos within. The hunt was far from over, but she had just gained a significant advantage. She turned and melted into the night, the hard drive tucked securely in her pouch, a key to unlocking the secrets of the city's underworld.
