I nod. I’ve learned what I needed to.
I finish my coffee and push my plate away. “Roarke will escort you back to logistics.”
She stands. “Understood.”
But she doesn’t leave.
“Something else?” I ask.
“You should check the Lisbon manifest from April,” she says. “There’s a carrier listed under ‘Moore Holdings’. That company doesn’t exist legally.”
Then she turns and walks out.
I sit still for a full minute before I move. My appetite’s gone, but my attention’s sharper than it’s been in months.
There’s something about her I still can’t place, and I think I’m going to enjoy finding out. After a full few minutes, I finish a piece of toast with another cup of coffee and then head to the ops block. Roarke intercepts me at the side stairs with a clipped update on the Balkan manifest. One driver’s route doesn’t match his clearance slip. I send him to track it down and tell Brona to hold anything outbound on the Vigo corridor until we get the seal logs confirmed.
The rest of the morning moves on schedule. Quinn returns to her post like nothing unusual happened. She works fast, cross-checks schedules, and doesn’t waste time. I catch her once watching the board, lips tight, head tilted just slightly like she’s mapping ten things at once. I don’t call attention to it. She’s doing more with three screens and a notepad than most of my men can manage in a week.
I handle the meeting with the Spanish rep over the late Vigo container. He tries to push past the breach. I remind him that he’s a guest, not a partner. He backs down.
At ten past eleven, I get a call. On the other end, Roarke’s voice is short. “Truck two-six got hit on the South Quay loop. One down. Container breached. Gunmen fled east. Witnesses say two bikes, one van. They knew what to hit.”
“Which route?” I ask.
“Clean whiskey. Labeled. Legit.”
“Driver?”
“Doran.”
I exhale once and head out. Quinn’s still at her desk when I pass. She sees me. Her hands still on the keyboard, but her eyes don’t leave my face.
I say nothing and keep walking.
The attack site sits less than two clicks from the secure loop, and the cleanup crew’s already there when I arrive. Roarke meets me at the edge of the taped line, jaw tight, coat unzipped.
“Two shooters, masked. One blocked the front. The other cracked the container. Took nothing.”
“Show of power,” I say.
He nods. “And a message.”
The truck’s still sitting with its rear doors open. The crate inside is untouched, but the seal’s been cut with bolt cutters and tossed. Doran’s body is half-covered. Blood leaked under the wheels.
He was twenty-eight. No priors. Two kids. I’d hired him through the Belfast line because he kept his head down.
“Who?” I ask.
“We think McKenna’s crew. The North Lotts line is squeezing, and they want space. Could be personal. Could be warning.”
I crouch beside the driver’s door, spot the chipped glass, the broken mirror, the blood spatter that hit the cab frame in a high arc. Close shot. No struggle.
“Call the family,” I say. “Make sure they’re seen. Cover everything.”
Roarke nods. “You want names?”
“Not yet. I want location.”
