Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“Approaching perimeter,” I murmur. “Two guards on the main entrance. One vaping. The other’s on his phone.”
“Copy that,” Bayo says in my ear. “Thermal shows the main group concentrated in the central space. Meeting must be in progress.”
Good. I need them distracted.
I slip down the fire escape, moving from shadow to shadow with the ease of long practice. The waterfront is deserted at this hour, no late-night joggers, no romantic couples, nobody to witness the small woman in black ghosting through the darkness like she belongs to it.
The vaping guard is my first problem. He’s positioned with a clear sightline to the maintenance ladder I need to access. I watch him for a full minute, memorizing his pattern: drag, exhale, glance left, glance right, repeat. Fifteen-second intervals between sweeps.
When his head turns right, I move.
It’s maybe thirty meters of open ground. I cover it in a silent sprint, my boots soundless on the wet asphalt, and I’m at the ladder before he looks back. Up the rungs, hand over hand, the metal cold through my gloves. The ventilation housing on the roof is exactly where Bayo said it would be, a rectangular box with a grated cover that’s heavily rusted.
The screws give way to my multi-tool with minimal protest. I lift the grate carefully, quietly, and peer into darkness.
“I’m at the access point,” I whisper. “Going in.”
“Copy. Good luck, Miss Mia.”
The shaft is tight but manageable. I army-crawl through decades of accumulated dust and, ewwwwww, a couple of dead mice, following the gentle slope downward toward the interior. Every few meters, I pass a vent cover that offers glimpses of the space below, spotting stacked crates, exposed pipes, and the occasional silhouette of a guard.
Then I hear voices.
I freeze, pressing myself flat, and cautiously inch forward until I’m directly above what appears to be a makeshift meeting room, made up of folding tables and industrial lighting. Gathered around them are a collection of faces that makes my pulse kick up.
Kozlov himself is unmistakable—barrel-chested, shaved head, the kind of brutal face that’s been broken and reassembled more times than you can count. He’s flanked by four of his men, all armed, all radiating the specific stealthy stillness of people who kill for a living.
Across from him are two figures in corporate attire. One I don’t recognize—youngish, nervous, clearly out of his depth.
The other makes my blood go cold.
Conrad Fucking Marsh.
The CEO of Global Dynamix himself and one of the richest men in the world. Here, in a warehouse, meeting with one of the Eastern Seaboard’s most notorious human traffickers.
I carefully slip my recording device from my pocket and start recording.
“—shipment was compromised,” Marsh is saying. “Fifteen subjects lost before we could extract viable samples.”
Subjects. Not people. Subjects.
Because of course that’s how a wannabe oligarch tech-bro would see them. Might as well call them serfs and reintroduce the feudal system.
“This is not my problem,” Kozlov growls, his accent thick. “I deliver what you order. What you do after, this is your business. Not mine.”
“What we do after requires living material, Mr. Kozlov. Dead bodies don’t hold consciousness worth a damn.”
The younger man flinches at Marsh’s words. Kozlov just laughs, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer.
“Then you pay more. Higher quality, higher price. This is how business works. I know you have the money. You have all the world’s money.”
Marsh’s jaw tightens. “Dr. Van Veen is not pleased with the current arrangement. She’s considering alternative suppliers. We have some here already on home soil.”
“Let her consider then.” Kozlov leans back, spreading his hands. “There is no alternative. I control the pipeline from Eastern Europe. The refugees, the displaced, the ones nobody notices are gone. They come through me or they don’t come at all. Your doctor knows this. Sure, you may think you can get it from your own peoples, but after the last government, I’m afraid you can’t do that anymore. They’re watching. The world is watching.”
My hands are steady as I record, but inside, something is screaming bloody murder. This is it! This is the proof we’ve been looking for. The connection between Global Dynamix, Kozlov’s trafficking operation, and whatever nightmare they’re running in those laboratories.
This is what happened to the people Kapoor discovered.
I need to get closer. There’s a laptop on the table in front of the nervous man, and I can see him pulling up files, showing Kozlov something on the screen. Shipping manifests, maybe. Records. If I can get access to that data—
“Bayo,” I whisper. “I need to get into that room. There’s a laptop with files I need.”
A pause. “That’s not recon, Mia. That’s a snatch job. Different risk profile.”
“Yeah, I know what it is,” I say testily.
“You’re outnumbered and outgunned. If they spot you—”
“Then I’ll handle it.” I’m already moving, crawling toward the vent cover that will drop me closest to the meeting room. “I didn’t come all this way to leave empty-handed.”