"Boring?"
"You have no idea."
The truth was, it wasn't just boring. It was torture of a different kind. Sitting here knowing what these containers probably held—organs, tissue, pieces of people who might not have consented—and doing nothing about it. The monster wanted to paint that loading dock red. Make examples of everyone involved. Send a message written in blood and broken bones.
Instead, I took another photo.
That's when the second van arrived.
This one was different. Newer. Black instead of white. No medical markings. It pulled up beside the first van, and four men climbed out. Even from across the street, I could see the telltale bulge of weapons under their jackets. The way they moved—checking sightlines, positioning themselves at corners—screamed security detail.
This wasn't part of the pattern.
I straightened in my seat, suddenly alert. One of the men spoke to the driver with the snake tattoo, who nodded and stubbed out his cigarette. They weren't here for a pickup. They were here for protection. Which meant something more valuable than usual was moving tonight.
Through the lens, I watched them form a perimeter around the loading dock. Professional. Paranoid. Whatever was happening, they expected trouble or were making sure it couldn't happen.
I grabbed my phone, snapped photos of the new arrivals, the second van's plates, the formation they'd taken. Sent everything to Maks with a message: "Change in pattern. Additional security. Something big happening."
His response was immediate: "Do NOT engage. Document only."
Right. Document only. While potentially dozens of organs were being harvested from people who'd come to this hospital for help. While Dr. Brand and the Belyaevs turned BrightonMedical into a chop shop. While I sat in my comfortable car playing tourist with a telephoto lens.
The monster in my chest wasn't just restless now. It was angry.
I watched one of the security team speak into a radio. Whatever was happening, it was coordinated. Planned. This wasn't opportunistic organ theft—this was an operation. They'd done this before, would do it again, unless someone stopped them.
Someone like me.
I set down the camera, pulled on the baseball cap I'd brought to hide my face. Dark clothes, nondescript jacket. Still too big to be truly invisible, but in the dark, from a distance, I might pass for just another hospital employee on a smoke break.
I typed one more message to Maks: "Going for closer look. East service door."
His response came as I was already opening the Escalade's door: "Kostya, NO."
But I was already moving, crossing the street in the shadows between streetlights. I'd watched this hospital for three days. Knew that the emergency room service door on the east side was propped open with a brick—staff used it for smoke breaks, avoiding the ten-minute walk around the building. Security cameras had a blind spot there, probably deliberate.
The door was exactly where I'd expected, the brick holding it open just enough to slip through. The hallway inside smelled like industrial disinfectant and that particular hospital smell—sickness and cleaning products and fear-sweat. My boots were silent on the polished floor. All those years of learning to move quietly despite my size finally useful for something other than intimidation.
Signs pointed toward the surgical wing. I followed them, keeping to the edges of hallways, ducking into doorways when Iheard footsteps. This was insane. I was investigating a hospital like it was enemy territory. But then again, maybe it was.
Voices ahead, speaking Russian. I pressed myself against the wall, edging closer.
"—wants the girl prepped now. Buyer is paying double if we harvest tonight."
My blood turned to ice. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Tonight. Right now. Someone was about to lose organs they hadn't consented to give, and I was close enough to hear it being planned.
The monster in my chest stopped being restless. It went perfectly, dangerously still. The kind of still that came before violence.
This was no longer surveillance. This was a rescue mission.
I moved toward the voices, each step deliberate, my hand already reaching for the gun in my shoulder holster. The surgical wing was quieter than the emergency department—fewer people, more shadows. Perfect for what was about to happen, though I didn't know yet what that would be.
The voices led me down a corridor lined with operating suites. Most were dark, but light spilled from under the door of Surgery Suite 4. I pressed myself against the wall beside it, listening.
"—told you to use more sedative," someone said in Russian. "She's fighting too much."
"We need her kidneys viable," another voice responded, clinical and cold. "Too much sedation affects organ quality. The buyer is specific about that."
