Eve felt herself falling into this man’s rhythm, stacking the metal drawers onto the iron frame. He tested the trolley’s wheels—smooth enough.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Escaping.”

  Burton tore a white coat from the wall, using it to secure the contraption together.

  “We can’t just run out. The fire will ignite your clothes first, the heat will melt your eyes, and then with one panicked breath, 100-degree air will sear your windpipe and lungs. Imagine it, Detective—it’ll feel like swallowing burning coals.”

  He described the gruesome death, then maneuvered the makeshift cart against the wall.

  “So we need this. Think of it like a sled—we’ll zoom straight out. I remember the route; it’s a straight shot.”

  He gestured to the gloomy metal drawer inside the cabinet, waving her forward.

  “Ladies first.”

  Eve was confused.

  “You want me to get in there with you?”

  She began praying her family would never find out. Being trapped with a strange man in a morgue… in such a tiny space… her father would lose his mind.

  “We need momentum, or we’ll stall in the flames like two roasted pigs. You understand, right?”

  Burton was far more focused on saving their lives than her discomfort.

  First the steam pipe explosion, then the fire. The blaze raged in the morgue, but miraculously, no one was injured. Still, Price was frantic—where was Eve? The rookie had vanished, despite her earlier enthusiasm for the case.

  Price feared the worst, but a thought struck: maybe she was at the center of it all—in the morgue.

  “Damned !”

  He panicked, but just then, a clattering metal cart burst from the burning corridor. Burton leaped out before it stopped, and the cart, still carrying Eve, slammed into the wall.

  Thankfully, his thick coat had protected him, but he had no time to catch his breath. His eyes scanned the crowd like a predator—someone here had set the fire, and they wouldn’t leave until they were sure no one survived.

  Where would they be hiding?

  Burton’s hand slipped into his pocket, which had a hidden slit leading to the gun beneath his coat. To others, he just looked like he was adjusting his stance, but his finger was already on the trigger.

  Now that there were survivors, what would the attacker do?

  His gray-blue eyes studied every face. Amateurs always gave themselves away—they hadn’t mastered the art of hiding their tension.

  It took Price ages to pull Eve from the drawer. She looked disheveled but exhilarated, as if she’d just discovered the thrill of her dream career.

  Brushing hair out of her face, she ignored her ruined appearance, using her sleeve to wipe ash from her cheeks, then struggled to her feet.

  The scene was chaotic. Nurses and doctors rushed to contain the fire, while visitors stared in shock. Burton watched it all, mind racing.

  Most people moved slowly, either returning to their posts or gathering to gawk. Doctors in white coats were few, fleeting glances at the fire before returning to their duties. Nurses carried basins of water, trying to control the flames.

  Patients and family members stood nearby, murmuring prayers or exclamations.

  Burton shook his head—his earlier line of thought was wrong.

  The attacker needed a safe vantage point, a way to escape into the crowd. Transporting a large can of oil past security? Only someone invisible would manage that.

  Pieces fell into place. Burton mentally reconstructed the scene: a janitor pushing a cart, pretending to clean, his bucket filled with oil instead of water. No one would suspect a janitor with a dirty mop.

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  Identity confirmed, location was easy—a corner just ahead, offering a clear view of the morgue exit and a quick escape into the lobby.

  “Make way, please!”

  Burton advanced toward the corner, excitement thrumming in his veins. Seeing him move, Eve shouted to Price:

  “That man’s suspicious! Don’t let him leave!”

  Price drew his pistol without hesitation, shouting, “Sir, stop and cooperate!”

  Though unsure of Eve’s accusation, Price trusted her instincts—there was something unsettling about Burton, like a familiar face from a wanted poster.

  “Dammit,” Burton cursed under his breath, breaking into a run. He knew rookie cops wouldn’t risk firing into a crowd.

  The panicked crowd parted for him, recoiling from the soot-stained man charging toward them with wild focus. It created a clear path—ironic, how fear worked in his favor.

  The janitor saw Burton approaching, his cover blown. Fear flickered in his eyes as he took a step back toward the corner. If he turned and ran, the crowd would swallow him, and Burton would lose him forever.

  Time for Burton Holmes’ Detective Code Rule 7: When suspects flee, disable their escape before they vanish.

  The Winchester shotgun emerged from beneath his coat in a fluid motion, his hand steady on the lever. The deafening blast echoed through the hallway, pellets shredding the janitor’s calf. He collapsed, blood pooling beneath him, too shocked to scream, only able to whimper as he crawled.

  Burton spun the shotgun elegantly, ejecting a smoking shell, then worked the lever to chamber a new round—the satisfying click of metal a familiar comfort.

  God, he loved this gun.

  Its short stock was custom-made to fit perfectly under his coat, a design secret he’d never shared.

  “Stay put, friend!”

  He closed in, but sudden gunfire erupted from the lobby. The janitor’s allies had a clear view of the scene—now that their man was down, they aimed to eliminate any witnesses.

  A bullet pierced the janitor’s skull, his body going rigid as blood spread across the floor. More gunfire followed, suppressing Burton and blocking his path to the lobby.

  Burton ducked behind a pillar, more curious than scared. What could be so important in that iron crate aboard the Silver Fish? What horrors had Vohl’s corpse hinted at?

  He focused on the gunfire pattern—no discipline, just panicked spraying. These weren’t soldiers, just hired thugs. Their fire would falter when they needed to reload.

  As predicted, the barrage paused briefly. In that critical gap, Burton surged forward.

  The Winchester roared again, a man in a dark coat crumbling as the shot tore through his chest. Blood sprayed the wall behind him, but no return fire came—they were retreating.

  Of course—Su Yalan Hall’s cavalry would arrive any minute. The attackers heard the distant thunder of hooves and knew they couldn’t risk a prolonged fight.

  Burton shoved through the crowd, chasing them outside. Gunshots rang out, but they were wild, meant to intimidate, not kill.

  He watched helplessly as the riders galloped away—until a shrill steam whistle split the air.

  Down the street, a massive iron train thundered toward them, its boiler hissing white steam, every traffic signal turned red to clear its path. The “iron serpent,” as locals called it, raced along the tracks, a marvel of steam engineering.