Page 29

Vincent’s body is still there. Propped up against a stack of pallets, shirt torn, bullet wound clean through the chest. Blood pooled underneath, dried already. Eyes open.

Message sent.

I crouch beside him. Search the pockets. No note. No tag. Just his wallet and a burner—powered off.

“Anyone move him?” I ask.

One guy shakes his head. “We left him how we found him.”

That’s good. That means it’s fresh. It means whoever did this didn’t have time to clean it.

I scan the lot. Footprints. Tire marks. One patch of smeared oil where someone stood too long. I follow it back to the fence line. There’s a cut in the chain link. Not the Cubans’ usual entrance. This was personal. It was messy. It was fast.

I pull out my phone and text Marco one word: Confirmed.

Then I capture a photo of the scene and attach it. I tuck the phone away and return to the body. Vincent’s chain is missing. They took it. Another message. It’s no longer just about killing him. They’re taking pieces now. Souvenirs. It’s not a robbery; it’s a hunt, and I’m starting to think I recognize what bait looks like.

Even after everything I’d seen, Vincent’s corpse still burned into my vision. Every jagged edge of those pallets seemed etched with the weight of his last breath.

I couldn’t afford to stare any longer. The night still had answers to give, and I needed to find them before dawn.

That matters. That tells me they didn’t come here to kill quickly. They came to make a point.

I stand and look around, back toward the lane between container stacks.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps.

Voices. Close. I duck behind the nearest crate and edge around until I can see the distant loading ramp. Three men. Cuban by their Spanish. One’s pacing with a machete as if it’s a stress habit. The other two are talking softly, too quickly to catch every word.

“That him?” one of them asks, pointing toward the lot.

The tall one steps forward. “No. That’s Damiani.”

They react like they’ve seen a ghost. The machete guy goes stiff, fingers twitching.

I move fast.

Two steps forward. Blade already drawn. I slam into the nearestone and throw him against the crate wall. His shoulder hits hard—bone cracks—and I bury my knife in his ribs, twist once, and drop him.

The second guy reaches for a gun, but he’s slow. I grab his wrist, slam his hand against the steel railing, and force the pistol free. It clatters to the floor. I elbow him across the temple. He goes down on the boards, groaning.

The third—machete guy—turns and runs.

I don’t chase him.

“Tell Javier he should’ve sent more,” I shout.

His footsteps pound down the pier until they vanish.

I breathe once. Short. Controlled.

I crouch by the guy I stabbed. He’s still twitching, breath rasping shallowly, and blood leaking from his side in quick pulses.

“Who gave the order?” I ask.

No response.