I wondered if he'd known what I would become.
I wondered if he'd care.
The office was in the corner of the warehouse, a glass box that had been added sometime in the past decade.
The lights were off, but I could see him inside—a silhouette hunched over a desk, his hands shaking, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He'd heard me. He knew I was here. He was trying to decide whether to fight or run.
He wouldn't have time to do either.
I kicked the door open.
The glass shattered. The sound was deafening, echoing off the walls, and the man screamed—a high, thin sound that made me think of animals caught in traps.
"Please—"
His voice was shaking.
"Please—I have money—I can pay you—"
"I don't want your money."
I stepped through the broken glass, my boots crunching on the shards, my knife held low.
"I want information."
"What kind of information?"
"Gabriel Mire. Where is he?"
His face went pale.
"I don't—I don't know—"
"You're lying."
"I'm not—I swear—I've never met him—"
"You've done business with him."
"No—I—"
"Mercy Logistics. Shipment 47-B. You were the broker."
He stared at me, his mouth open, his eyes wide.
"How do you—"
"I know a lot of things."
I walked toward him, and he backed away, stumbling over a chair, falling to the floor.
"Please—"
"Where is he?"
"I don't know—I swear—I only facilitated the transaction—I never met him in person—"
"Someone did."
