The clattering of descending footsteps echoed like the banging of gongs, and Otis Caplan’s lantern lit up the small windows as he passed each one. When he reached the bottom floor he kicked the gate open and stomped out into the yard, shouting for various lieutenants and henchmen. Some followed him down the tower, down the stairs—and some charged up from Millionaire’s Row, coming up the wide streets with their lanterns held high and a great deal of complaining.

“What are you all doing back here?” he demanded.

“Sabotage!”

“What?”

“Someone sabotaged our sabotage! All of it! There’s fighting down at the Station right now—they opened fire on us! They came right for us!”

“They were waiting for us! They knew we was coming!”

Zeke whispered to Rector, “You all ready to go?”

“Yep. How about you?”

“All I gotta do is flip the switch.”

“Me, too.” Then Rector asked, “How do we know when to turn ’em on?”

“Huey said we’d know.”

Down in the open space, at the circle in front of the tower where all the streets met, Otis Caplan was furious. His light swung back and forth in his hand, as though he’d love for someone to come close enough to beat with it. He stalked toward the men, some of whom were bleeding and ragged, and a few of whom were wheezing like maybe their masks weren’t working quite right.

“Where’s everybody else?” he demanded.

“Still there. Or dead!”

“That’s horseshit, and I won’t hear it!”

“But, sir!”

“It’s horseshit! Those damn Station monkeys and that yellow-headed, slant-eyed son of a bitch—”

Whatever else he had to say about Yaozu, he didn’t get to finish it.

Behind him, a bell began to ring—the chime of a wake-up call. It jingled for two full seconds, giving everyone present just enough time to wonder what the hell was going on before the tower exploded.

It blasted outward and upward, a cascade of bricks blooming and billowing, flung from their foundations. Twisted, melted metal hurtled in 360 degrees, flattening whatever the bricks missed on their first wave and slicing trees into kindling. The bricks smashed any windows within a hundred yards, including those on the old governor’s mansion; they gusted inward, a million little daggers glittering in the resulting fire.

And there was plenty of fire.

As the conical tower roof slapped down upon the park in peeling, shriveled pieces the size of horses, the still in the tower spread burning fuel in every direction—and everything close had sparked, and some of the sparks had caught.

Rector and Zeke looked up to see a dozen flickers of flame licking dead trees, downed walls, and the brittle shrubbery that once had decorated the manicured lawns. Only then did it occur to Rector that it hadn’t rained in a week, at least. Maybe two.

He grinned. “Zeke, guess what: Summer’s here.”