Cillian’s voice stays even. “Who sent you?”
The driver tries to lift his chin. “I was paid to bring it here.”
“By whom?”
He shakes his head fast. “I don’t know.”
Roarke takes one step forward, and the driver flinches, then tries to hide it. Cillian holds up a hand, and Roarke stops.
Cillian turns his head slightly, and his gaze lands on me. “Quinn,” he says.
I keep my face neutral. “Yes.”
“You recognize those forms?”
This is where I need to be careful. If I deny it too hard, I look guilty, and if I admit it, I hand him a thread. I take one step closer and keep my tone flat. “They’re not Byrne paperwork.”
Cillian’s eyes narrow. “So what are they?”
I look at the top sheet, then I look at the driver again. “They’re meant to get him past the first desk without someone calling it in.”
Roarke’s mouth tightens, and Kavanagh shifts his weight.
Cillian watches me. “You’re telling me this is a test.”
I nod once. “Or a probe.”
Cillian turns back to the driver. “You were told to come to gate three.”
The driver’s eyes flick left, then back. “I just followed directions.”
“Who gave them to you?”
He swallows hard. “A man. Suit. Mid-thirties. Scar on his cheek.”
My throat stays calm, but my brain spikes. A man with a scar in our world could be half the city, and my father keeps plenty of them on payroll, but the detail feels far too neat and convenient. Cillian steps closer to the driver and takes the folder from his hands with one smooth movement. The driver’s fingers twitch like he wants it back, then he thinks better of it.
Cillian flips the pages, then he looks toward Roarke. “Check the van.”
Roarke nods and motions to two men. They open the back doors.
The van is mostly empty.
No crates, no tools, no normal delivery trash, just a small, sealed envelope taped to the inside wall, placed dead center like it wants to be found. Roarke peels it off and holds it out.
Cillian takes it without looking away from the driver.
He turns the envelope over once, then once again, then he tears it open.
I don’t move.
The driver’s eyes keep jumping.
Cillian pulls out a single sheet of paper.
No letterhead. No logo.
Just typed words.
