Page 119 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

My legs feel unsteady. Every academy I trained at. Every mentor who praised my potential.

"I'm seeing communication equipment for international coordination. This isn't some operation that got out of hand—this is architecture."

Mira's assessment confirms what I'm witnessing. System design. Planning. Systematic destruction of everything that saved me after Tommy died.

"Viktor handles European supply." Gideon gestures toward wall charts showing shipping routes. "I manage American distribution through legitimate racing infrastructure."

The racing schedules. The container timing. The way events perfectly align with transport windows.

Viktor pulls up data on the central screen. Names. Ages. Skill assessments.

Not just transportation. Selection.

"Sweet boy, breathe. I need you functional."

Mira's voice cuts through the rushing sound in my ears. Right. I'm here for evidence. For the mission.

Container codes burn into my memory: TCX-7749, KLM-8832, PLK-9901. Shipping dates aligned with racing calendars. Radio frequencies for international coordination. Names and faces on victim assessment screens.

Every detail is evidence that could save lives.

Something flickers in Gideon's eyes as he watches me memorize the shipping schedules. Too much focus, too much professional interest.

Fuck. He's reading me.

His hand moves casually toward his desk drawer—not for a weapon. For the security alert system.

Gideon leads me into his private office, same wood-paneled space where he used to review our training footage. Trophy cases line the walls—my trophies, Tommy's trophies, dozens of other kids who trusted him. Racing photos cover every surface. Me at sixteen, grinning next to my first professional bike. Tommy throwing his helmet in the air after winning sectionals.

All of it was a lie.

"Sit down, kid. We need to talk business."

I stay standing, studying the wall behind his desk. Racing calendars hang next to shipping manifests. Awards ceremonies scheduled alongside cargo transport windows. The integration is seamless, professional.

"Three years of careful planning." He settles into his chair, gestures at the photos surrounding us. "Every successful program requires proper foundation work."

The photo of Tommy and me after our double victory at Saddleback sits on his desk, right next to financial documents. Shipping codes. Names.

"Foundation work?"

"You think I taught you and Tommy about honor and protection?" He leans back, that familiar proud smile twistinginto something ugly. "I taught you obedience. How to follow orders without question. Perfect recruitment techniques."

Every lesson. Every moment he made me feel worthy. Every time I tried to make him proud.

"Tommy's accident taught me something important." His tone stays conversational, like discussing weather. "Some investments don't pay off. But the lessons learned help train better assets."

My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets, force my breathing to stay even.

He's talking about Tommy like a failed business venture.

"Assets."

"Don't look so shocked, kid. Everyone has a price. Mine just happened to be high enough to make this worthwhile."

He opens a desk drawer, pulls out more photos. Kids from other academies. Training schedules mixed with psychological profiles. Age ranges. Skill assessments. Vulnerability ratings.

"Most people think trafficking is about grabbing random victims off the street. That's amateur hour. Real professionals identify talent early. Develop it. Shape it."