His lips part, pulling in air with effort. Karp’s forearm remains a barrier across his throat, reminding him that compliance is a better choice than pride.
“I don’t know.”
Karp presses down, just enough to disrupt his breathing. The man’s eyes water. He tries to speak again, and it comes out rough.
“Circle,” he forces out. “Arkady’s… circle.”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Which one?” I ask. “Name.”
He makes a small, strained movement against the asphalt, but Karp keeps him in place. “I don’t know names.”
“You know who pays you,” I reply. “You know who you call.”
He fights for a breath. “Contact.”
“Where?”
His eyes squeeze shut. “Warehouse,” he chokes out. “South end. Near… the train tracks.”
“Which train tracks?” I press, and I keep the question narrow because men like this hide behind generalities.
“Old Stowe Yard,” he answers, his voice cracking. “There’s a loading bay. Blue… door. He meets people there.”
I watch his mouth as he speaks and the strain it takes to get the words out. He’s afraid, but he’s not falling apart, which means he’s still thinking. I don’t take anything he gives me at face value.
“Who’s the contact?” I ask again. “A name. A face. A habit.”
He coughs again. “Tall. Beard. Smokes. Drives a gray Tacoma.”
Karp’s eyes stay on the man’s head, not on me. He’s listening anyway.
One vehicle. One contact. Tight. Controlled. That’s not how freelancers work. That’s how Arkady does.
I straighten slightly and look down at him.
“You’re going to keep breathing because it benefits you,” I tell him. “You’re also going to understand that if Rowan is harmed, you won’t be alive long enough to regret your choices, and if she’s returned intact, you might live long enough to regret them anyway.”
Karp shifts his forearm, lifting just enough for the attacker to pull in a deeper breath. The man gasps, coughing, and Karp’s hand clamps the back of his head, keeping him from lifting his face.
I step away and bring my phone to my ear. Mikel answers before the first ring finishes.
“I’m at the estate,” he tells me. “The perimeter’s locked. Where are you?”
“Westbrook corridor,” I respond. “Two blocks from the hospital. Leo’s on transport. Karp kept one alive.”
A brief pause follows, not confusion, just recalculation.
“Arkady?” Mikel asks.
“He mentioned Arkady’s circle. A warehouse at the south end. Near the train tracks. Old Stowe Yard.”
“I’m on my way to you,” Mikel says.
“Bring Polina’s feeds,” I tell him. “I want every camera within a mile of that yard. Traffic, private security, anything that caught the van.”
“Already pulling them. I’ll meet you there.”
