The gavel struck the mahogany stand, not with the dry thud of justice, but with the final, sickening finality of a guillotine blade hitting the floor.

Chloe traced a map on the hood of her rusted Jeep. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, the city skyline glowing ominously in the distance.

"The transfer is off the books," Chloe explained, pointing a flashlight at a winding road near the industrial docks. "They aren't taking him to Blackgate. They're taking him to a Maroni slaughterhouse near the harbor. There’s a chokepoint right here. The Route 9 bridge. It’s narrow, no cameras, and no way out."

"How many guards?" Leo asked, checking the magazine of the Glock.

"Two in the front, two in the back. All Maroni hitmen in uniform," Chloe said. She reached into the trunk of her Jeep and pulled out a heavy steel spike strip and a pump-action shotgun. "I thought I left this life behind. Turns out, blood always calls you back."

They drove to the Route 9 bridge in silence. The tension in the car was suffocating. Leo’s hands were no longer shaking. The fragile boy who had sat in the courtroom twelve hours ago was dead. In his place was a survivor, forged in the fires of his brother's sacrifice.

They parked the Jeep across the narrow bridge, blocking both lanes. Chloe rolled out the spike strip across the slick asphalt. They killed the lights and waited in the shadows of the steel bridge trusses.

Ten minutes later, the heavy hum of a diesel engine echoed through the night. Twin headlights cut through the fog. The armored transport bus was approaching.