Wasted time. Every second here is another second Lila's getting taken further away.
I slip back into the shadows, moving toward the second vessel. This one sits darker. Quieter. Less activity, but the air feels different.
A man approaches the gangplank with a build that comes from years of being someone else's muscle.
Bratva. Has to be.
I follow, keeping distance. I allow him to board first before I slip on behind him.
Voices carry from below deck. Russian. Two men at least.
I press against the bulkhead and listen.
"—everything loaded by dawn." Older voice. Authority. "No mistakes this time."
"Yes, Boss. Dmitri said?—"
"Shut the fuck up." The older voice cuts like a blade. "Don't say names out loud. Anyone could be listening."
"Sorry, I didn't think?—"
"That's your problem. You don't think. This isn't some street gang where you can run your mouth. Operational security matters. One wrong word in the wrong place gets us all killed."
Dmitri.
That's all I need to hear.
Now, everyone on this ship dies.
I almost smile. The older one just gave the rookie a lecture about keeping quiet. Good lesson. Smart thinking. Too bad he works for a dead man walking.
Most of them disappear below deck. Footsteps on metal stairs. Voices fading into the ship's interior.
One man stays topside. Smoking and looking at his phone. His back is to me, not paying attention to anything that matters.
Fucking amateur.
I move silently. My knife is already in my hand. The blade finds him before he knows I'm here. It lands between the ribs, angled up toward the heart. A hand over his mouth catches any sound.
He goes rigid and soon slack. I lower him quietly to the deck.
The adrenaline hits immediately. Fuck, I forgot this feeling. The clarity that comes from being inches from death. No guns. No distance. Simply skill, speed, and training.
I forgot how much I love it.
I enter the ship officially now, slipping below deck where the real work happens.
I need to know what kind of operation this is. Drugs or trafficking. I have to know if Lila might be here or if I'm wasting precious time.
The hallway below deck is narrow. Painted metal walls. Smells like diesel fuel and old rust. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
Footsteps approach from ahead.
I press into a doorway, letting the shadows take me. A man passes. Young. Maybe mid-twenties. Headphones in. Bobbing his head to whatever music he's listening to.
Easy kill. Too easy.
I don't think, I move, grabbing him from behind. An arm goes around his throat. I squeeze until his windpipe collapses. He thrashes, clawing at my arm uselessly before he goes limp.
