A Lonely Place
to Die

Sixty seconds on the timer. Six men zip-tied in an archive room with live grenades in their hands. Three floors up, William Galdwin stands in front of a ballroom of donors and tells them Detroit is family.

Both things are true at the same time. That's the city.

The Galdwins have owned Detroit for three generations — the contracts, the corners, the courts, the mayor who used to be on their payroll. Tonight someone starts taking it apart with the patience of a chess player, and never once asks for a seat at the table.

They call it The Architect. Nobody has seen a face. Everybody is about to see the work.

But the file pulled out of that archive room didn't belong to a rival. It was marked War Games — and it was already inside the house.

Fifty-nine minutes. No heroes. Ask the Galdwins what loyalty costs when somebody finally calls the debt.