30. Chapter 25
Z asha
The air in Balboa sticks to your skin. It’s dense, heavy, and smothering.
I step out of the blacked-out SUV, my boots hitting the dock with a soft thud. The men nearby fall silent as soon as they see me—some nod, while most don’t move at all. They know better than to speak unless I ask them to.
It’s late, but the port’s still humming. Cranes clank overhead. Ships groan against the tide. Lights flicker against the dark water, illuminating stacks of containers taller than buildings.
I scan the shadows. I can smell tension in the air. It’s not just the humidity or the salt—it’s something else. Something off.
“We’ve got word out of D.C.,” one of our lieutenants mutters as he approaches, tablet in hand. “Somebody tipped off the feds. They think it’s arms.”
I grunt. “It’s pharmaceuticals and grain this time.”
These fools can’t even get their information right.
He hesitates. “Still high value.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, jaw tight. “And the bastards can’t even be wrong properly.”
The shipment cannot be rerouted. Not when it is this far into the chain. It is already halfway in and scheduled to arrive at the dock in less than an hour. Delaying it now would raise more red flags than allowing it to come in clean.
But over my dead body would I let the Feds touch it.
I tap the comm unit in my ear and speak into the mic. “Patch me through to our main guy at customs here.”
A moment later, a gruff voice answers in Spanish. “Senor Petrov.”
“There’s a decoy shipment on Manifest D-117, arriving within the hour. Redirect the agents to that crate. Make it look like a hot lead. I want dogs. False alerts. A full spectacle.”
“Acknowledged.”
I end the call and turn to the lieutenant.
“I told the handlers to seal and mark the decoy as if it were an important shipment. They put a few busted radios and rice in it, and then some fertilizer for spice. The feds can have that.”
“Got it,” the lieutenant replies, already typing.
“Let them waste their search on crates of junk.”
A slight smirk curls at the corner of my mouth. I can already see the agents back in D.C. with their thick folders and thicker egos, filing paperwork for nothing while the real goods move under their noses.
Sometimes, intelligence is overrated. You just need the right distraction.
I climb the steel stairs to a narrow walkway overlooking the dock. From here, I can see everything—the security trucks positioned at the loading gate, the forklift operators moving like clockwork, the Bratva men blending in as local handlers.
No tension in their movements. Good. That’s what I want. A clean, invisible job right in the open space.
The container carrying our assets rolls into position. Unmarked. Sealed. Standard color. Just another metal box in a city of them.
Below me, the crew works without hesitation. No one rushes. No one slows. That’s how we’ve survived this long—by not looking like we’re trying to survive.
I fold my arms and lean against the railing, watching as the container is offloaded and quietly shifted onto a local hauler. Our logistics contact signs the manifest with a bored expression. Just another Tuesday night.
Although they’re professionals, I don’t relax. Not until the truck is on the road, headed toward a distribution site two hours inland. Only then do I step back and allow myself to breathe easily.
I walk back to the SUV, head down, mind already moving to the next step. We’ve plugged the leak for now. But there was a leak. And I don’t believe in coincidences.
The engine hums beneath me as I tear down the highway, headlights carving through the dark like blades. The heat from the docks still clings to my skin, sticky and suffocating. The windows are down, but the air outside is thick—like trying to breathe through gauze.
I tap the screen on the dash and call Lev.
He answers on the third ring, voice lazy. “You know it’s Friday, right? I was two seconds from—”
“We’ve not built what we have by enjoying Friday nights,” I cut in, tone clipped.
He groans. “You always know how to kill a good mood.”
“I’ve handled the Feds. Shipment’s on its way. Our guy at customs ran the decoy play, and they took the bait.”
“Smooth.”
“But there’s a but,” Lev says, already sobering.
“There’s a leak,” I say. “High up but sloppy.”
I switch lanes without signaling, weaving through two slow trucks.
“I want you sniffing it out,” I continue. “Start with the port. Then trace back to our vendors, handlers, customs staff. Anyone with access to shipment manifests. If they so much as blinked funny this week, we’d need to know why.”
Lev exhales. “You know how to make a guy feel special.”
I say nothing. Just press harder on the gas.
Lev gets serious again. “You thinking it’s one of ours?”
I pause.
It’s not hesitation; rather, it’s calculation because I don’t like speaking out of turn.
“Can’t be too sure at the moment,” I say finally. “But it has to be someone who knew the schedule and the load. The leak wasn’t random.”
Lev hums. “Maybe Thiago?”
The name slices through the night air like a hidden blade.
Lev continues, voice casual, but the edge is there. “He gave us that route, didn’t he? This passageway through Balboa? Maybe he’s pissed we’re still profiting from it without the golden handshake of family bonding.”
“It’s been four years,” I mutter, jaw tightening.
“Exactly,” Lev says. “The grudge would be nice and ripe by now.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. The city lights flicker in the distance, low and hazy against the dark.
“You think the old bastard’s still pissed?” Lev asks.
I take a beat before answering.
“We both know grudges don’t age,” I say. “They ferment.”
A long silence hums between us.
Then Lev exhales. “You want me to include Delgado’s people in the sweep?”
“No,” I say. “Not directly. Start with our side. Suppliers. Dock workers. Contractors. I want it clean, quiet. If you find nothing, then we expand.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll send a list of names. Check port records and surveillance logs. Don’t just look for who accessed them—look for who didn’t. The quiet ones are always the rot.”
Lev makes a noise in the back of his throat—part acknowledgment, part approval.
“Anything else?” he asks.
I hesitate for a moment.
“Check the manifest printers. If anyone slipped in early to make a copy or reroute the files, I want timestamps.”
“Copy that.”
I end the call.
The road stretches ahead, long and winding through the Panamanian jungle. The breeze cuts through the open windows, but it doesn’t cool me.
Nothing does.