Mikel joins me.
“She was never here,” I state.
The absence doesn’t give me comfort. It gives me direction.
I turn back to the captured men.
“You will remain alive,” I inform them calmly, meeting each gaze in turn. “Your usefulness depends on your cooperation. If you attempt to reduce that usefulness, the consequences will be immediate.”
Karp lifts the first man to his feet and secures his hands behind him. The injured one is forced upright as well, blood marking the floor in uneven streaks. We escort them outside. The wind has intensified, driving damp air across the yard and pulling at the edges of my coat.
As the prisoners are placed into separate vehicles, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Polina.
“I expanded the scan on Lila Moreno,” she informs me. “There is relevant movement.”
I step slightly aside, though no one is close enough to overhear.
“Continue.”
“Jonathan Moreno. Gambling debt escalating over the last six months. Loan sharks tied to Volkov intermediaries. Tonight he was pulled from a vehicle and left outside his apartment building.”
I remain where I am beside the open car door, the cold pressing against the back of my neck as I watch the house in front of me, aligning the information with what I already know.
“Injuries?” I question.
“Visible bruising. Arm in a cast from a prior assault. He’s trying to stand.”
Of course he is. He thinks standing proves something. And this is no coincidence.
“Where is he now?”
“Still outside his building. No emergency services were contacted.”
“Keep eyes on him,” I reply, and end the call.
I turn toward Karp.
“Jonathan Moreno. Bring him.”
Karp nods once and moves.
I close the car door and straighten, the cold working beneath my collar. The vehicles pull away one by one, engines low, leaving the lake to swallow the last of the noise.
This location gave me nothing. Rowan was never here. Which means the real pressure is somewhere else.
The warehouse off Remington still does what it was designed to do. It’s controlled, private, and insulated from noise and outside interference. On the street, Jonathan Moreno is leverage for whoever reaches him first. At Remington, he answers to me, and that means no one touches him without permission.
The overhead industrial lights spread a pale wash across the room, illuminating dust suspended in the air that has not moved enough to feel warm. The space is intentionally sparse. A metal table against one wall. Two folding chairs positioned beneath the lights. No unnecessary objects to distract attention.
Jonathan sits in one of those chairs, wrists unbound but posture restricted by pain. The cast on his left arm is scuffed and gray at the edges, the fabric fraying where moisture has seeped in and dried again. His knuckles are swollen. The bruise along his jaw spreads downward toward his throat in darkening gradients, and his lower lip has split along the center line, a thin crust of dried blood pulling when he speaks. The skin around his right eye is swelling shut, thickened, and beginning to discolor, narrowing his field of vision.
Karp stands behind him without touching him, but close enough that Jonathan is aware of the proximity. The temperature in the warehouse is cool enough that Jonathan’s breath shows faintly when he exhales. He watches me approach with a look that attempts confidence but trembles at the edges.
“You going to tell me what this is about,” he demands, his voice aiming for control his body can’t quite manage.
I remove my coat slowly and place it over the back of the chair opposite him before sitting, smoothing the cuffs of my shirt as he watches.
