A figure stood by the railing, overlooking the transaction. He wasn't working. He wasn't checking the crates.
He was just standing there with the specific, heavy stillness of a man who owned everything he saw. He had the right height, the right build, the right way of holding his shoulders.
"Reid," I whispered. "Upper level. Confirm."
"Thermal shows one individual," Reid replied after a beat. "Upper level east. Matches the profile of Emilio Vincenti."
We moved up the metal stairs, our footsteps muffled by the ambient hum of the facility's generators. Cyan was a shadow at my shoulder, his breathing steady, his eyes never stopping.
As we reached the walkway, the figure turned.
It was the face from the photographs. The sharp nose, the receding hairline, the dark, calculating eyes.
Emilio Vincenti was standing five feet away from me. Finally. After months of shadows and proxies, the man himself was within reach.
