Kanyan (Gatti Enforcers #1)

20. Kanyan

20

KANYAN

A t least Lula is safe. That’s the only thought keeping me steady as I head toward my car. My heart pounds, a relentless drumbeat echoing in my chest, threatening to match the explosion Mason just reported. One of our container ships—gone. Blown to pieces. How? I don’t know yet. Every shipment was inspected and cleared just last month. This isn’t some random accident. No, this reeks of sabotage—deliberate, calculated, and personal.

The air at the port is thick with smoke, acrid and choking. The flames are a towering inferno, licking at the sky, casting long, twisting shadows over the chaos. Sirens blare, lights flash, and people shout orders, but none of it registers. All I see is the ship—the remains of what used to be a vital artery of our business, now nothing but charred steel and twisted debris.

Brando is the first to spot me, his face grim under the orange glow. “It’s bad, Kanyan.”

I push past him, my boots crunching on shattered glass and splinters of wood. “Tell me something I don’t know,” I snap, my voice like gravel.

“There’s no way this was an accident,” he says, keeping pace with me.

Scar emerges from the shadows, his leather jacket streaked with soot. “Timed explosives,” he says, cutting straight to it. “The Jekyll’s already looking into it. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”

My teeth grind together. “The shipment?”

“Gone. Every container. Burned or sunk.”

I stop short, letting the weight of it sink in. That ship was a lifeline—a major part of our import-export business. Now it’s gone, and with it, weeks of income and leverage. But this isn’t just about money. It’s about the disruption to our operations.

Scar hands me a blackened fragment of metal, barely recognizable. “Found this near the blast site. Part of a detonator.”

I turn it over in my hand, the sharp edges digging into my skin. “Professional work,” I say. “Whoever did this isn’t some street thug.”

Dante and Attila show up, their faces hard. Dante speaks first. “The fire’s under control, but it’s going to take weeks to clear the wreckage. Customs will be crawling all over this. It’s a mess.”

“It’s not a mess,” I say, tossing the metal shard at Scar’s feet. “It’s war.”

We gather in the temporary command post set up in one of the warehouses. The room smells like smoke and old sweat, but no one cares as we commit to finding out who destroyed our ship and why. Dante unrolls a map of the port, spreading it across the table.

“The explosion originated here,” he says, pointing to a section of the ship. “Middle container stack. Manifest says it was carrying industrial chemicals, non-hazardous.”

“Obviously false,” Scar says.

“Or switched,” I add, my mind racing. “Someone wanted this to happen. They knew exactly where to place the bomb for maximum damage.”

The Jekyll enters, a dark figure with a smirk that never quite reaches his eyes. He tosses a file onto the table. “Preliminary findings. Looks like the explosives were military-grade, not easy to come by. Whoever did this had resources.”

I scan the file, my eyes narrowing. “Albanians?”

The Jekyll shrugs. “Could be. They’ve been poking around the edges of our territory, looking for ways to weaken us. But this feels bigger than them.”

“Bigger how?” Brando asks, leaning forward.

“Whoever did this didn’t just want to hit our business,” The Jekyll says. “They wanted to cripple us. This is surgical. Precise.”

“And the timing?” Dante asks, his voice low. “Right after Kanyan was shot?”

The room goes silent. All eyes turn to me. My jaw tightens. “It’s connected,” I say. “It has to be.”

“Which means someone’s got serious beef with you,” Scar says. “And they’re not done.”

The docks are cold and quiet, the smell of salt and oil lingering in the air as we continue combing through the wreckage. The aftermath of the explosion has left an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional groan of shifting metal. My frustration simmers beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. Hours of searching, and we still don’t have a damn clue about who did this or why.

Lucky Gatti approaches me, his phone glowing in his hand, his face illuminated by its blue light.

“I might have a lead on the arms heist,” Lucky says, his voice low but urgent.

I straighten up, my full attention on him. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve got a secure meet set up, but we’ve got to move now,” he replies, already slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Why the secrecy?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Because the holding unit is still under surveillance,” he answers.

“And you know this how?”

Lucky smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re about to find out.” He gestures toward his armored car. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the other side of town is tense. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow, the low hum of the engine the only sound between us. Lucky doesn’t volunteer any information, and I don’t press him. I know better than to interrupt his process. Instead, I focus on what’s ahead, mentally preparing for whatever this “secure meet” entails.

We pull up to a church. Of all places, a damn church. Its towering steeple looms against the night sky, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. Lucky kills the engine and gets out, motioning for me to follow.

“This is your lead?” I ask, my voice laced with skepticism.

“Trust me,” Lucky says, his tone clipped.

We slip inside through the heavy wooden doors, the hinges groaning like a warning. The interior is dimly lit, candles flickering at the altar. The place feels abandoned, save for one figure hunched over in a pew midway down the aisle. He doesn’t move as we approach, his head bowed, his hands clasped as if in prayer.

When we stop beside him, he lifts his head slowly. The man’s appearance strikes me immediately. He’s dressed like a vagabond, his oversized coat hanging off his frame, his shaggy hair and beard obscuring most of his face. But his eyes... emerald green, sharp and calculating, stand out against his grime-smeared skin. He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, his gaze is fixed forward, like he’s weighing whether we’re worth his time.

“Yo, Saxon,” Lucky says, sliding into the pew beside him.

I remain standing, reluctant to get too close to the man. Something about him feels... off.

Lucky gestures for me to sit. “Take the pew in front of us. We’re not here for a standoff.”

I reluctantly sit, turning to face the two of them. My eyes bore into the vagabond, assessing. His disheveled appearance is too deliberate, his demeanor too calm. This man isn’t what he seems.

“You brought a friend,” Saxon says, his voice rough but measured. His eyes finally land on me, studying me without hostility, but with an unnerving curiosity.

“You know who he is if you know he’s a friend,” Lucky replies, his tone casual.

The vagabond leans in close to Lucky, whispering something I can’t hear. Lucky listens without flinching, his eyes flicking to me briefly, as if gauging my reaction to their secret exchange.

“What’s this about?” I ask, my patience thinning.

Lucky straightens and meets my gaze. “Saxon saw something the night of the heist.”

My jaw tightens. “What did you see?”

Saxon’s gaze shifts between us. “This cannot come back to me,” he says, his tone low and serious.

“The moment we’re out of here, we forget we even met,” Lucky assures him. “You have my word.”

Our word is as good as gold in our circles, and Saxon seems to know this. He nods slightly before reaching into his coat pocket. My hand instinctively moves toward my sidearm, but he pulls out a phone, not a weapon. It’s a sleek device, oddly modern for someone dressed like a vagrant.

Saxon unlocks the phone with long fingers, dirt caked beneath his nails—a detail I now suspect is part of his disguise. He navigates to a video and holds the phone out so we can see the screen.

The footage is grainy but clear enough. It shows the storage unit, and outside, a handful of men are standing together. They’re talking, their gestures animated, before one extends a hand to another in a clear agreement. The video freezes as Saxon zooms in on their faces. My stomach tightens as I recognize them.

There’s no mistaking it. I know exactly who they are.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, my voice low and venomous.

Saxon leans back, pocketing the phone. “Now you know. What you do with it is on you, but I wasn’t here. You never saw me.”

Lucky nods, standing. “Thanks man. I owe you one.”

“Two,” Saxon says, as we walk away. “You owe me two. Because you brought a friend.”