We split up.
Fenrir and Ulf take seats at the bar.
Hakon and I grab a table near the back, good sightline to the whole room.
Order beers we won't drink, pretend to be just two guys killing time.
For the first hour, nothing happens.
Just the usual dive bar crowd—people drinking, talking, minding their own business, then two men enter.
Both in their forties, dressed like truckers but moving like predators.
Eyes scanning the room, checking exits, assessing threats.
They head straight for a booth in the far corner.
A third man's already there—younger, maybe thirty, nervous energy rolling off him.
The three of them huddle close, voices low.
I can't hear them from here.
But their body language screams illegal business.
"That them?" Hakon murmurs.
"Maybe. Let's listen."
We nurse our beers, strain to catch fragments of conversation.
"...Thursday...I-10 corridor..."
"...four packages...young ones..."
"...warehouse off exit 192..."
My hands tighten around my beer bottle.
Packages.
Code for kids.
Four of them.
Being moved Thursday.
"We need to get closer," I whisper.
"Fenrir said?—"
"I know what he said. But we need specifics. Location, time, who's handling transport."
Hakon nods reluctantly.
I stand, head toward the bathroom, path taking me past their booth.
Slow down as I pass, pretending to check my phone.
