I set the pliers down. “What exactly did he say?”
The man is crying now, trying to talk through it. “He said the old man built those routes before your boss ever touched them. He said he wants back what belongs to him.”
I stand up slowly. “Did he say anything else?”
The man swallows blood and nods. “He said the old man was done waiting. Said the bastard had been spending his legacy long enough.”
This time I don’t bother hiding my reaction.
Bastard.
Mikhail says, “Could be a bluff.”
“Maybe.”
But I already know I don’t believe that.
I walk to the broken window and look out over the terminal yard. Floodlights. Wet concrete. Men moving bodies, scrubbing blood, locking down gates. Bay Fourteen open and stripped. Not cleaned out for profit.
This wasn’t a raid for money.
It was a message.
Whoever sent Yegor knew what was in that container, knew what it meant, and knew exactly when to hit it. During the gathering. While I was occupied. While my attention was somewhere else.
Mikhail comes up beside me. “You think he’s here.”
I don’t answer right away.
My father built some of these routes before I had money, men, or a name I could use. He knows how they work. He knows which ones still matter. If someone reached for Bay Fourteen, they either learned from him or got the order from him.
And then there’s the timing.
I stay where I am for a moment, looking out through the broken window at the terminal yard below. The floodlights make everything look flatter than it is. The blood near Bay Fourteen has already been washed back to a pink sheen on the concrete. One of the refrigeration units is being resealed. Men are working fast because they know I’m watching, and because the dead man already loaded into the ambulance has reminded everyone how quickly tonight could have gone worse.
It still might.
I call Anton at customs.
He answers too quickly. He’s nervous.
“Tell me about private dock arrivals in the last three days.”
He starts talking immediately, shuffling papers, trying too hard to sound useful. I let him ramble for five seconds, then cut in.
“Relevant arrivals, Anton.”
A pause.
Then he says, “One launch came in through Jersey forty-eight hours ago. No passenger list. Cleared through an old monastery permit.”
That does it.
“Who signed it?”
“No formal signature. It was pushed through as a favor.”
“By who?”