Three dots appear and disappear four times.
Nick
I can go if you want. Last time you went after Doyle intel solo, you came back with a broken hand.
Me
No.
Nick
Please don't do anything stupid.
I’m a little offended he would even say that.
The address arrives thirty seconds later. I memorize it, delete the text, then pull up my contact list and scroll to a name I haven't used in years.
Elliot.
Ex-CIA who works as a freelancer now. Elliot can pull files that don't officially exist and make people talk when they'd rather die. He owes me three favors. I've been saving them.
The phone rings twice before he picks up. "Tristan. To what do I owe the?—"
"I need everything on a Doyle operation running out of Pier 38C. Manifests, personnel, money trails. I don't care how deep you have to dig."
A beat of silence before he speaks. "Hello to you too."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I don't really have time for this."
"I don't think you want to go digging around Pier 38."
"Why don't you let me worry about that?"
"Doyle's not someone you poke without consequences. They'll know the second you step close enough to their territory."
"I'm aware."
I can almost hear him weighing loyalty against self-preservation. "Give me forty-eight hours."
"You have twenty-four."
"That's im?—"
"Twenty-four, Elliot. Don't test me."
He mutters something that sounds like a curse. "Fine. But if this blows back on me?—"
"It won't."
I hang up before he can argue back, and frankly I'm tired of hearing his whining. My eyes fall to the photo on the wall again.
Keira, caught mid-laugh.
The boy in her arms with my eyes, my blood, and my fault for not being there.
A life frozen in a moment I was never allowed into.
You didn't know.
