“Take the two outside,” I order. “No shots. If anyone inside reacts, pull back. We’re here for confirmation, not a firefight.”
Karp nods once and melts into the darkness with two of his men. I remain by the fence line, watching.
The men near the SUV don’t see Karp until it’s too late. One goes down with a knife at his throat, muffled by a gloved hand. The other jerks, reaching for his weapon, but a forearm locks around his neck and drags him backward into the shadows. The struggle lasts seconds. Then the lot goes quiet again.
Karp signals. I move forward with Mikel at my side, stepping over snow and slush, our boots quiet against the wet asphalt. We reach the unit door, and Karp produces a key ring taken from the second man. He tries one key, then another. The lock clicks.
Karp raises his hand, his fingers counting silently.
Three.
Two.
One.
He yanks the door upward in one swift motion. The metal slams open with a harsh scrape.
Inside, the unit is lit by a single hanging bulb. The space is mostly empty. A folding chair. A battered table. Plastic zip ties on the tabletop. A cheap speaker. A dark stain on the concrete that might be oil. Or blood.
A man sits in the chair with his hands bound behind him and tape pulled tight across his mouth. He looks up as we enter, eyes wide and unfocused, somewhere in his mid-thirties, face already bruised and carrying the unmistakable strain of fear.
Karp moves first, ripping the tape off the man’s mouth. He coughs hard, sucking in air like he hasn’t been allowed to breathe freely in hours. His eyes bounce between faces, then lock on me.
“You,” he rasps. “You’re Sovarin.”
I don’t respond to flattery. “Who are you?”
He swallows hard, his throat working. “I drive. For Arkady sometimes. Not always. Just when they need me.”
Karp crouches and with a quick, controlled motion of the knife, slices through the ties. His shoulders drop, and his hands tremble as circulation rushes back into his wrists.
“They’re gone,” he blurts. “They moved them.”
My spine tightens. “When?”
“Today. Earlier.” His voice shakes. “They used my van for part of it. Then they switched.”
“Where?” The word comes out low and dangerous.
He shakes his head rapidly. “I don’t know the final place. I swear. They don’t tell the drivers. They tell us routes, then they change them.”
“Mikel,” I murmur, without turning.
Mikel is already moving, scanning the unit, checking corners, and looking for devices.
Karp’s eyes stay on the man.
“Who gave the order?” I press.
The man’s eyes dart toward the door. “Arkady.” He hesitates, then lowers his voice. “And the other one.”
That gets my full attention.
“The other one,” I repeat, keeping my voice calm.
He nods, his breath trembling. “Ivan. He was there.”
I keep my expression still. “What did Ivan want?”
