The room smells of cold sweat and overclocked processors.
On screen—a van, battered, the plates so caked in road grit they might as well be blacked out.
It glides to a stop at the farthest pump.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the driver's door cracks, and a figure unfolds—tall, coat zipped to the chin, a beanie pulled low.
The walk is deliberate, head down, hands in pockets.
They round the front, squat to check the tire, glance up once at the CCTV.
It's not Keira.
It's not even a woman.
But in the moment the van's back window catches the overhead light, I see a shadow.
A figure, small, slumped, head lolling to the side.
It's only for a heartbeat—then the footage stutters, artifacts ripple across the feed, and the next frame is a blank whiteout.
Tomas rewinds, plays it again slowly.
The hair is wrong for anyone but her.
The way the shoulders slope.
Even unconscious, she manages to look defiant.
I watch it six times.
At the end, I let my hands rest on Tomas's shoulders, gentle.
He says, "The van left east, toward the port. No other cameras pick it up.”
"Get me a list of every storage yard and private dock between here and Sandymount. Cross with the Connolly shell companies."
He nods, already working the search.
I leave him to it.
I cross to the back wall, where the lockers stand in a line, each marked with a number instead of a name.
I punch in the code; swing open the door.
The inside is orderly—top shelf, a duffel. Bottom, a rolled tarp, two boxes of latex gloves, a can of orange spray paint.
I take the duffel, unzip it on the steel bench. Inside—claw hammer, zip ties, gas canister.
I add a box cutter and a folded utility vest, then zip the bag tight.
Every motion is deliberate, the way my father showed me when I was ten and he taught me to crack open a lock without waking the neighbors.
As I hoist the duffel, Killian slips in.
He's already in field kit, hair slicked back, eyes sharp but with that glassy, sleepless sheen I've seen before the worst nights.
