The building was unremarkable from the outside.
Inside was different.
A private meeting room. Long table. Four men already seated when they arrived. Expensive suits. Careful eyes. The kind of men who had learned not to show what they were thinking.
Ethan walked in like he owned the room.
Eve followed a step behind. Notepad in hand. The picture of a professional assistant there to take notes and nothing else.
Nobody looked at her twice.
That was exactly how it was supposed to work.
The meeting started.
Numbers first. Shipment details. The goods — three containers moving through the port on Saturday night. A specific window between security rotations. Forty minutes where the cameras on dock seven would be running on a delayed feed.
She wrote it all down.
Not just the words. The pauses. The things said carefully. The things not said at all.
By the time signatures went down and hands were shaken everything had been confirmed.
Location. Timeline. Security gap.
Saturday night. Dock seven. Forty minutes.
They walked out into the afternoon.
Back in the car Eve looked at her notepad.
"The two men on the left," she said. "The numbers they agreed to weren't what they came in with. They adjusted mid meeting."
Ethan looked at her.
"Someone contacted them before we walked in," she said. "Someone who knew your opening position."
The car was quiet.
"You got that from watching them," he said.
"Yes," she said.
He held her gaze for a moment.
Then looked forward.
"Good," he said quietly.
They rode in silence for a few minutes.
The hotel came into view ahead.
"Come up," he said. "We'll go through the notes properly. Order food."
She looked at him.
Same hotel. Same building. A reasonable enough request on the surface.
She knew it wasn't entirely about the notes.
He probably knew she knew.
"Okay," she said.
The car stopped.
They got out.
And Eve followed him inside telling herself she still had this under control.
She was no longer sure that was true.