Adrenaline locks my focus in place. “Face match?”
“It is grainy,” Misha replies. “We are still cleaning the footage, but we ran a preliminary. The smaller figure being carried is the right height and build for Hope. Hair length and color areconsistent with Hope’s as well. We cannot confirm one hundred percent. Yet.”
The word “yet” drops like dead weight in the room.
“She was there,” I murmur.
“It is likely,” Misha agrees. “What I know for certain is that they did not keep her long. The van left again ninety minutes later. Same crew. One figure out. One loaded back in. They used a different gate that time. Cameras are trash at that angle, but we picked up enough to know they left in a hurry.”
“They moved her.”
“Yes,” Misha confirms. “Whoever it was.”
I feel a familiar chill slide into place under my skin. Not panic or even anger. Something older than both. The part of me that has carved territory out of hostile ground, one broken man at a time.
“Who is on-site now,” I ask.
“Alpha team is staging two blocks out,” Misha immediately answers. “Albert is coordinating it. We can have the dock surrounded in fifteen minutes if you give the word.”
I do not hesitate.
“Do it,” I say. “We go now.”
Fifteen minutes later, screens line the desk in the study and the wall behind it. Video from street cameras and body cams streams into a patchwork of black-and-white and grainy color. Maps are spread across the desk surface.
Vega sits at my feet, his ears pricked. He can feel the tension gathering in the air as clearly as I can.
“Alpha is in position,” Albert says through the speaker. His voice is crisp and professional. “South approach covered. East and west flanks ready. No visible movement at the primary gate yet.”
“Copy,” Misha replies, standing at my side. “Bravo?”
“North perimeter covered,” another voice answers. “We have a clear line on the secondary gate. No sign of vehicles.”
“The lot?” I ask.
“Quiet,” Albert says. “Too quiet. It looks like an empty yard. No workers or guards.”
No one is that careless. If they have pulled out, they have done it quickly and with intention. That alone tells me the ground there still holds something worth the risk.
“On my mark,” I instruct. “You move.”
We are not there in person, but my pulse climbs like I am the one moving into the dark with a weapon ready. The layout of the yard blooms in my head as clearly as if I stand at the gate. Stacked shipping containers. A squat warehouse structure. Chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Loading bays along the south wall. The kind of place men like the Sokolovs favor, built to be out of sight, functional, and forgettable.
“Alpha,” I say. “Advance to the primary gate. Stay spread. No open targets until we know what is inside.”
“Copy,” comes the reply.
The body cam view changes as the men move. Asphalt. Fence. The glint of metal. The camera tilts up. South Dock 32 looms ahead, lights off except for one dim bulb over the main door. Itshould feel abandoned, but it does not. The silence is the wrong kind. Expectant.
“Gate is chained,” someone reports.
“Cut it,” I order. “Quietly if you can. Fast if you cannot.”
Metal bites metal. The faint rasp carries through the audio. Then the chain falls away.
“Go,” I order.
Alpha flows through the opening, weapons raised. Bravo pushes in from the north a moment later.
