He checked his watch.0200.Two weeks of surveillance and he was running out of patience.The Bratya didn’t behave like street criminals anymore—they were organized, military in precision.Whoever was backing Sokolov had deep pockets and no conscience.
He reached for the coffee thermos sitting beside him, took a swig, and grimaced.Cold.Bitter.Perfect for the night.He stood slowly, stretching his back, and peered through the blinds.Across the street, the warehouse glowed under floodlights.Two semis were being unloaded by a half dozen men in dark coats.The work moved too smoothly, too practiced to be local muscle.The scene screamed control.
He exhaled, wiped the condensation from the glass, and reminded himself—he wasn’t here to intervene.Oh, he would if he could, he would intervene to the point that the very streets would be painted red with the blood of Sokolov and all his fucking pedophile friends.But every minute he waited, more people disappeared behind those steel doors.Watching that warehouse night after night, seeing those faces, hearing the muffled cries in the wind—he couldn’t stay out of it any longer.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a secure satellite phone, and scrolled through his encrypted contacts.The entry he needed was nothing more than coordinates and a single word—Ridge.
He pressed “call.”The line clicked twice before a familiar voice answered.
“What?”came the clipped greeting.
Drew smiled faintly.“Always the same happy greeting, Bateman.”
“Always the same call out of nowhere, Wraith,” Bateman replied.His tone carried the dry amusement of a man who had seen too much.“You don’t call unless it’s bad.What’ve you got for me?”
Drew let the name settle between them.Wraith.The ghost who never stayed dead.He had adopted it after his supposed death six years ago.
“I’ve been watching Viktor Sokolov,” Drew said.“He’s expanding fast.Using the Newark docks to move anything that’ll sell: guns, powder, bodies.He’s buying loyalty by the dozen, and the city’s starting to choke on it.You and I both know what happens if it spreads.”
Bateman didn’t answer right away.Drew could picture him—sitting at a console in Obsidian Ridge, arms folded, sharp eyes narrowing.“You sure you want to wade into that mess?That’s Bratya territory.You’ve got no team, no backup.”
“I want to wade in like you wouldn’t fucking believe,” Drew muttered.“And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t need backup.Just a knife and I make my own opportunity.”
There was a pause over the line.“That would be all a man like you would need.So, why call me?”
“I’m not in a position to burn his world to the ground right now,” Drew growled.“I need a crew—someone motivated enough to take that bastard and his people off the map for good.”
“You’ve been buried a long time, Wraith,” Bateman said.“Must be one hell of a reason you’re surfacing now.”
Drew’s hand tightened on the phone.“It’s the same reason it’s always been.I can’t unsee what I’ve seen.”
He stepped closer to the window.Across the street, men in dark coats shouted in Russian.A smaller figure—a child, maybe twelve—was shoved toward the warehouse doors.Drew’s jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.
“I need him stopped,” he said quietly.“Thought maybe the team at Obsidian Ridge would want a piece.”
“Pathfinders are off this particular grid,” Bateman said after a long silence.“We’ve got other fires burning.”
“Then who, Bateman?”Drew demanded.“You and I both know this won’t stop with Sokolov.”
Bateman’s tone shifted—measured, deliberate.“There’s another crew working domestic ops now.Off the books.I’ll reach out to them.”
Drew narrowed his eyes.“Who?”
“Black Tide.”
The words hit harder than he expected.Of course he knew them.He knewhim.Kael Makani.The name alone cut deep.
For a heartbeat, the warehouse blurred.He was back on that beach—Hawaiian moonlight glinting off wet skin, Kael’s hand against his chest, the sound of surf pounding around them.Forty-eight hours isn’t long enough, Kael had murmured.Then make every single one of them count,Drew had answered.And they had.Until the world exploded around them—literally.
Fire.Chaos.Silence.The memory still carried the sting of salt and ash.
He blinked, dragging himself back to the present.The warehouse came back into focus, cold and merciless.
“They can mobilize fast,” Bateman said, breaking the silence.“You feed me what you’ve got, and they’ll take the shot.”
“Fine.”Drew’s voice sounded steadier than he felt.“Give me an hour.I’ll send the intel.”
“Stay dark, Wraith,” Bateman warned.“If they trace you—”
