“Clear.”
“Good. Then let me be equally clear about what happens now.” He leans back. “You have information I want. Not the corridor logistics. We built the corridor, Mr. Forrester. I don’t need you to explain our own supply chain.”
“Then what?”
“Everything adjacent. The wolves in your region who knew what you were doing and kept quiet. The packs who cooperated informally. The alphas who benefited from the Syndicate’s presence without appearing on any ledger.” He uncrosses his legs. “The political structure that allowed you to operate for a decade without a single formal challenge. That’s what I want. Not your corridor. Your map.”
“My map.”
“Of complicity. Which is considerably more useful than a list of names.”
“Why?”
“Because corridors are replaceable. The one you shut down was one of six in the southern region alone. What isn’t replaceable is the network of cooperation that sustained it. The wolves who looked away. The packs who adjusted their patrol routes to leave gaps. The alphas who received payments and asked no questions.” He pauses. “New corridors need the same kind of cooperation. The fastest way to build that is to identify the wolves who cooperated before. You’re not giving me intelligence on the past. You’re giving me a blueprint for the future.”
I watch his face while he talks. There’s nothing in it. No anger, no satisfaction, no performance. Just the clean, clinical delivery of a man explaining a business proposition. He could bediscussing feed contracts or fence repairs. The calmness of his tone is the most unsettling thing about him.
“No.”
His expression doesn’t shift. The ice-blue eyes hold mine.
“That was quick. I expected at least a pause.”
“I came here to take whatever you throw at me. I didn’t come here to help you build another corridor.”
“You came here to protect your compound. Which I can unprotect with a phone call.”
“Then make the call.”
A flicker. Something behind the flat surface. Amusement, maybe, or the ghost of it. “You mean that.”
“Yes.”
I’m here to protect my pack. But not at the cost of setting up another wolf pipeline.
“Interesting.” He uncrosses his legs. Leans forward. The movement is small. The change in the room is not. The air gets heavier. The temperature drops by a degree that has nothing to do with the ventilation. The fluorescent tube stutters and dims for a second before recovering.
The man sitting across from me has stopped pretending to be human-sized, and whatever he actually is has filled the room and pressed me back against the chair without touching me.
“I prefer working with living assets,” he says. “Dead wolves don’t cooperate. Destroyed compounds don’t produce useful intelligence. But those preferences have limits, Mr. Forrester. And you are testing mine.”
He reaches into his jacket and removes something. Sets it on the table.
A photograph. A building I don’t recognize. Low, industrial, surrounded by fencing. I can only imagine it’s a facility like the one Willow and Conner destroyed.
“Sixteen operational research facilities,” Creed says, confirming it. “Four continents. The southern facility your people dismantled was one node. A significant node. Its loss was inconvenient. But replaceable.” He taps the photograph with one finger. “Everything is replaceable. Facilities. Corridors.” His eyes find mine. “Alphas.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”
“You have more than you think. Years running a supply line leaves impressions the operator doesn’t realize he’s collected. Names mentioned in passing. Routes suggested by contacts. The patterns you observed without recording. All of it is in your head.” He stands. Picks up his chair one-handed. Moves it to the wall. “And my people are very skilled at finding things in heads.”
He walks to the door. Stops. His hand on the frame.
“We begin tomorrow. Tonight, you’ll sit in this room and consider your position. The dampening runes will keep your wolf contained. The temperature will drop another few degrees at midnight.” He glances back at me. “By morning, you’ll be cold and stiff, and your resistance will be exactly where I want it.”
The door closes. The lock engages.
The room is quiet. The fluorescent tube flickers. The cold is already deeper than it was an hour ago, or my body has lost enough warmth that the difference no longer matters.