“There,” one of the men says. His camera focuses on the ground near the loading bay. “Tire tracks. Fresh. Not enough rain since last night to wash them out. They pulled in close.”
Misha glances at me, then back at the screen. We do not need to say anything. We both read the same thing. They were here recently. And they were in a hurry.
“Door is locked,” someone says next.
“Breaching,” another responds.
A muffled thud. Then the metal gives way.
The camera rolls forward into darkness. Light flares as their lamps come on, the beams cutting through dust motes in the air. The warehouse interior takes shape. Rows of shelving and pallets. A few scattered crates. In the center, there is a cleared space.
“Clear the corners,” Albert instructs over comms. “No one assumes an empty box unless I say so.”
I watch the men fan out. Left. Right. Their lights sweep over the concrete. The place is cleaner than I expected. No obvious chaos or bodies.
“Pakhan,” a voice calls. “You need to see this.”
The camera tilts down. There is a mattress on the floor without a frame, just padding thrown flat on the concrete. A thin blanket. A plastic cup overturned on its side with a dried ring of liquid spread beneath it. And near the mattress, next to a rusted metal chair, is a small pile of clear vials glinting in the light.
The man carefully picks one up between his gloved fingers and brings it closer to the lens. I lean in. I have seen these before.
“Zoom in,” I tell Misha.
He taps a key, and the image tightens, the text on the side of the vial becoming clear enough to read. Medication name. Dosage. Manufacturer. Most of it is unimportant to me, but one detail is not. The label includes the word “anticonvulsant.” Seizure control.
My molars grind once. Hope’s file from the hospital flashes through my memory. The note on her chart. History of seizures. Medication list.
“Check the others,” I order.
The men obey. One by one, the empty vials come into view, each with the same label. The dates printed along their edges are recent.
“Some of them still have residue,” one of the enforcers notes. “Looks like whatever was in them was given here, on-site.”
“They did not just pass through with her,” Misha says under his breath. “They treated her here.”
I wrap my hand around the edge of the desk. The wood bites into my palm. Hope was here. Not a possibility or a probability. A fact.
“Search the rest,” I instruct. “Every shelf. Every crate. Check the office if there is one. If they left anything behind, I want to see it.”
They move, sweeping the warehouse in a methodical pattern. I force myself to breathe slowly and think past the roar in my head.
Hope was here. She needed her medication, which means they have not let her crash. They are not careless with their leverage. They intend to keep her alive for now. It is a twisted kind of mercy, but mercy all the same.
“Office in the northwest corner,” someone reports. “Door was locked. We are in now.”
The view shows a small room with a battered desk and a bank of old monitors. The screens are dark, but one of my men steps toward the corner where a security system sits.
“Looks like they tried to wipe it,” he says. “Hard drive is gone. Cables cut.”
Of course it is.
“Check the trash,” I respond. “Drawers. Under the desk. Ceiling tiles if you have to. They always miss something.”
It takes three minutes.
“Got something,” a voice finally says. The camera focuses on the man’s gloved hand. He is holding a small, torn piece of paper. “Printer scrap. It fell behind the cabinet.”
“Bring it closer,” I demand.
