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Prologue - Six Days Later

Mammals of the law gathered within the North Side Chicago warehouse, checking their claws for dirt and shining badges for the press. The air was heavy with ruddy malted oak and something else that made the teeming creatures nervous.

Illinois Attorney General Brundage held court, thick fur spilling over a too-starched collar as he howled. "Accept this promise. When the scourge of intoxicating liquors have been poured from every den of ill repute, from the wet boardwalks of Atlantic City to San Francisco, only then will God's creatures know the tranquility intended for us," the german shepherd showed vengeful carnivore's teeth. "Until that day, the men and women of this city must be resolute in virtue."

The dog waved a clawed finger airily and a news weasel's flashbulb immortalized it for Chicago's newsstands from the Gold Coast up north to Hammond down south. The raccoon beside the photographer scrawled quickly and chewed tobacco noisily.

Brundage's tail switched behind his checkered trousers. "Last night's violence will see every last one of the mob's feral scofflaws cuffed and caged. Through the hard work of our officers of the law, supported by agents of the Bureau of Internal Revenue assigned to prohibition enforcement, the good people of Chicago will see justice done, and a better world for our cubs."

The weasel took another photograph as the State Attorney straightened his tie, his white-spatted, black-clawed foot mounting an overturned barrel charred by flames. The speakeasy they'd hauled it from was smoking rubble a mile away, a tragedy that claimed many lives.

Brundage posed proudly above the spoils of war as cameras flashed and glanced back at the line behind him. "Beatie, will you do the honors?"

Towering over the posed line of officers, the Special Agent heading the local office of the Prohibition taskforce scowled around his pipe. The bear's eyes met those of a brown-furred wolf by the door, whose expression begged for anonymity. That lone survivor of the LaSalle massacre kept back from the flashes, but further still from any shadows.

Beatie roved the line of officers instead. "Henderson was first through the door at the Wacker speak and was nearly shot, so I'm going pass it to her."

The mountain lion who came to take the axe had a cold gleam in her eye. Her team fared well enough at Wacker Drive, busting up tables, registers, heads. As for the raid at LaSalle...this charred barrel was its only tribute.

"Now?" she asked the news mammals.

The weasel thumbed-up, the Attorney General nodded. The camera caught the oak splintering.

But not what came after.

There were gasps as an abattoir stink stabbed every nostril. The barrel's cracked lid slipped free and its contents roiled upon the cement floor, spreading fast.

Henderson saw what was beneath her, dropped the axe and bolted, tail a kite. The throng of reporters fled as sickly corruption chased them. The State's Attorney hollered, soaking his foot in horror as he hopped past the barrel's mouth and slipped to his knees, scampering for escape.

The contents of the barrel oozed forth with a sickening shine and the dirty brown wolf standing alone took a shuddering breath, remembering horrors twisting in the dark and the flames that claimed them.

Head Agent Beatie had retreated to one side of the room, pipe lost. "It's like a window into hell," he breathed.

The wolf said nothing, shutting his eyes tight against the charnel slick spreading forth before opening them to a thud at his feet.

Brundage, the top dog of the law in Chicago, had fainted dead away.

****

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