"Not just data. Reality." I can almost feel it—threads moved, timelines rewritten, stories tweaked to erase the wrong truths. "Whoever's behind this didn't just change files. They changed perception. Made sure every trace of what Morrison touched looks ordinary or really fucked up."
Yuri exhales. "Our assassin's crafty with his tech. But it could be a her. Can't discount a woman. Look at Fee."
My fingers tighten on the wheel. "On that, I want you to meet with her today. Teach her what you know. Everything."
He glances at me, reading between the lines. "That's not basic training, Anton. That's a lifetime of work."
"Then make it a long lesson."
Yuri smirks, catching on. "You want to keep her here."
"She's not going anywhere. Not yet."
Having access to Yuri's knowledge will tether Fee here longer than any chain could. She's too smart to trap, too curious to let go.
There's no controlling a mind that hungry, and I'm not trying to. I fucking love that about her.
The warehouse district spreads before me like a graveyard of broken dreams and rusted metal. The pier stretches into darkness like a concrete finger pointing at secrets. Water laps against the pylons with the rhythm of the city, and fog rolls off the water thick enough to hide sins.
I kill the lights and let the Camaro disappear into shadow. Twenty yards ahead, Connor Quinn's Lincoln idles, engine low and steady. Patrick steps out first, checking his watch like time's ever saved a man in our world.
I scan the pier through the windshield. Empty.
A silver BMW glides into the lot, engine low, movement too smooth for this part of town. Government plates flash under the sodium lights before the fog swallows them again. The driver steps out in a suit designed to blend in anywhere and mean nothing.
"That's our boy." Yuri squints through the fog. "Cultural Commission Director, David Hartley."
I watch Hartley approach the Quinns with the careful steps of someone walking through a minefield.
"Can you hear them?"
Yuri lifts a small device, its blue light pulsing like a heartbeat. Static hums, then voices thread through the noise.
"...paperwork you've been waiting for."
Hartley's voice carries the practiced ease of a man who's lied for a living and learned to sound proud of it. "Your Chicago shipment clears customs tomorrow morning. Clean manifests. Sealed containers."
"About fucking time." Patrick's impatience slices through the fog. "We've been sitting on millions in inventory."
"Morrison's death complicated things," Hartley says, straightening the papers in his hands. "He had debts, as you know. Tried to keep that part of his life buried. Not surprising, given the circles we move in. But it left the route exposed."
His tone stays smooth. Too smooth. "I worked with Morrison often—mostly art shipments, not ordnance—but I've made sure this one is covered. Everything's handled."
He sounds certain. Men like him always do. They lie with posture, not words—shoulders relaxed, gaze steady, the small smile that says they've convinced themselves.
I watch him hand over the files. The tremor in his fingers gives him away.
"He's nervous," Yuri murmurs beside me.
"He should be," I say. "He's standing in blood and pretending it's paperwork."
"Maybe he's the one Morrison hired the shooter for," Yuri says, eyes narrowing. "Wouldn't be the first time a man tried to clean up his own mess by outsourcing it."
I keep watching through the scope of fog. "Maybe. Or he's the reason Morrison needed the shooter in the first place."
Hartley closes the folder, then steps back toward his car. "You'll find everything in order. Your contacts at customs are briefed. Consider it done."
"Done." Patrick's tone makes it sound like a curse.
