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Ten minutes drag by like a slow bleed. I keep my eyes on the time, checking my watch again and again until I’ve lost count. Every second stretches tighter, each tick of the clock a reminder that we're too close—too damn close—to unravelingThe Collector’s trail. He has her brother. And if Alex screws this up now…

No. He won’t. He can’t. Failure isn’t just a setback anymore—it’s unforgivable.

Just as the tension curdles in my gut and I reach for the handle to go after him, the driver’s door clicks open. Alex slides back into the seat without a word, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Something’s changed.

“Clear,” he says, his face grim. “Too clear.”

“What do you mean?"

“No cameras, no security measures, not even basic surveillance." He starts the engine. "It's either incredibly sloppy or…”

“Or it's not the real meeting point,” I finish. “They're watching to see if we follow protocol.”

Alex nods, putting the Range Rover in drive. "Time to find out.”

We cruise slowly down to the weathered dock, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The wind has picked up, sending whitecaps across the water. Alex parks facing the water, positioning us for a quick escape if needed.

Alex exits first, circling around to open my door with quiet deference. I step out into the biting wind, my suit jacket flapping against my sides. Salt air fills my lungs as I straighten my tie, settling into the impatient stance of a man who doesn’t wait for anyone.

“Eight minutes,” Alex reminds, standing a respectful distance behind me.

We wait in silence, the only sounds are the creaking of the dock and the crashing of waves against the rocky shore. The wind carries a hint of coming rain, and I scan the horizon, squinting against the fading daylight.

That's when I see it, a sleek object cutting through the choppy waters, heading directly toward us. A boat, its matte black hull absorbing what little light remains, making it seem like a hole moving across the ocean's surface.

“Contact,” I mutter, not turning my head.

Alex shifts slightly behind me. “I see it. Thirty seconds out.”

I straighten my posture, adopting the bored, slightly irritated expression of a wealthy man whose time is being wasted. Charles Blackwood wouldn't show anxiety. He'd show impatience.

The vessel glides toward the dock—a luxury speedboat designed for stealth rather than show. No identifying markers, no registration numbers visible. As it draws closer, I can make out two figures on board, one at the controls, another standing near the bow.

“Armed?” I ask under my breath.

“Definitely,” Alex confirms. “Both of them. The one standing has a shoulder holster. Driver likely has something at his waist.”

The boat slows as it approaches the dock, engine purring almost silently as it maneuvers alongside the weathered planks. Neither man makes a move to exit or secure the vessel. They're waiting for us to approach—a power play, forcing us to come to them.

“Sir?” Alex prompts, playing his role. “Shall we proceed?”

“Obviously,” I drawl, letting annoyance color my tone as I step forward. Alex follows a half-pace behind, his presence solid and reassuring at my back.

As we near the boat, the standing figure steps onto the dock. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from granite. His suit is expensive but practical, designed for movement rather than show.

“Mr. Blackwood?” His voice carries a faint Eastern European accent.

“You're late,” I reply coldly, checking my watch for effect.

His expression doesn't change. “Check them.”

The other guard at his side shifts towards us, patting down Alex first. He removes the gun from inside his coat, tossing it to the side. Satisfied he’s unarmed Alex, he shifts to me, finding nothing.

“They’re clean,” he reports to his partner.

"Identification and proof of purchase."

I don't move, merely flicking my fingers toward Alex without looking back. "Jack, the documents."