They left the single dad off the Christmas party list, and by morning he was deciding which managers still had jobs.

The intersection of Michigan Avenue and Wacker Drive looked like a war zone.

Flashing red and blue emergency strobes painted the snow-covered facades of the surrounding skyscrapers in violent, oscillating hues. Four Chicago Fire Department hook-and-ladder trucks blocked the street, their diesel engines idling loudly. Hundreds of wealthy partygoers in thin evening gowns and ruined silk dresses stood shivering in the sub-zero wind on the sidewalks, wrapped in cheap yellow emergency blankets handed out by paramedics.

Among them, Colin Mercer and Trevor Bell were pacing near the hotel entrance like trapped animals. Colin’s tuxedo jacket was ruined—spotted with slush from when someone had knocked him into a snowbank during the evacuation. Trevor was dry-heaving near an ornamental planter, his face gray with terror.

Then, a heavy black Cadillac Suburban bearing Vance Holdings’ private executive crest parted the sea of emergency vehicles. The fire marshals didn't stop it; they waved it through the police tape immediately.

The Suburban pulled to a halt right in front of the Marlowe’s grand entrance.

The rear door opened.

Daniel Carter stepped out.

He wore his heavy, dark canvas work jacket, his faded Carhartt pants, and his thick, oil-resistant Red Wing work boots. In his right hand, he carried a heavy, scuffed steel Kennedy cantilever toolbox. His expression was as cool and unreadable as Lake Michigan in January.

Behind him, Arthur Vance stepped out of the opposite side of the Suburban. Vance wore an ankle-length cashmere coat, walking with the steady, unhurried cadence of an emperor who had arrived to inspect the rubble of a minor province.

Colin saw Daniel and lunged forward, his eyes bloodshot. "Daniel! Thank God! They’re holding the fire chief back from flooding the server vaults with chemical foam! If they deploy the dry chemical, the entire Meridian infrastructure is dead! You have to get down to sub-level three right now!"

Daniel stopped. He didn't look at Colin. He looked at Trevor Bell.

Trevor shrank back against the wall, unable to meet his eyes.

"Where is the emergency mechanical schematic for the West Tower bypass?" Daniel asked Trevor.

"I... I don't know," Trevor stammered. "Marcus had the binder... he might have left it near the main boiler..."

Daniel shook his head once, a gesture of profound, clinical disgust. "Amateurs."

He turned to the Chicago Fire Department Battalion Chief, a burly, gray-haired man named Kowalski who was standing beside the building manager. Kowalski had his hand on his radio, clearly thirty seconds away from ordering a full chemical suppression dump.

"Chief Kowalski," Daniel called out.

The Chief looked up, his eyes widening in sudden recognition. "Carter? What the hell are you doing here? They told me some clown named Marcus was the building engineer tonight."

"Marcus couldn't find a shutoff valve if it was painted neon orange and singing the national anthem," Daniel said, walking straight past Colin as if the Vice President were made of thin air. "The primary glycol loop didn't blow from overpressure, Chief. I know this plant. The intake filters on the tertiary loop froze because nobody purged the moisture traps before the cold snap hit. The high-pressure alarm is an airlock, not a hydraulic failure."

Chief Kowalski took off his helmet and scratched his head, looking at the building manager. "Is that true?"

"I... we don't know!" the building manager cried. "The automated readout says critical catastrophic overpressure!"

"Because the sensor is submerged in frozen slush behind the baffle," Daniel explained calmly, cracking open his steel toolbox with a crisp, metallic snap. He pulled out a heavy bronze T-handle key and a handheld digital calibrator. "Give me twelve minutes. Chief, hold off on the chemical dump. If I haven't cleared the thermal interlock in twelve minutes, blow the foam and save the structure."

Kowalski looked at Daniel's eyes, then looked at Colin Mercer’s trembling hands.

"You’ve got ten minutes, Carter," Kowalski barked. "Go."

Daniel turned toward the service stairs leading down into the darkness of the Marlowe’s sub-basement.

Colin tried to follow him. "Daniel, I’m coming with you—"

Daniel stopped at the threshold of the steel fire door. He turned around, his broad frame blocking the doorway entirely. The emergency strobes from the street reflected in the cold, unyielding pupils of his eyes.

"Stay out of my way, Colin," Daniel said quietly. "You spent all night telling everyone this building was for executives. The basement belongs to the people who work."