Chapter 2 – Silas - The Man Behind the Curtain #2
I walk two blocks, then four. I go past a dive bar with a red sign that flickers every third second, a man pissing in the alley behind it, a woman screaming into a phone.
The city keeps trying to hand me distractions. I don’t take them.
I climb the stairs to my apartment with each step sinking like concrete in my joints.
The door closes behind me like a vault.
Deadbolt clicks into place.
Jacket off. Glock back on the table.
I feel it then—like I’ve carried her scent back with me. Like some part of Lydia Carr followed me home, tucked inside the lining of my coat.
I’m not here to stalk women.
I’m here to break a criminal network in half.
Drazen. Dom. The brokers. The fixers. All of them wearing suits with blood in the seams.
But I followed her.
Because I wanted to.
Because I needed to.
And now the space between that distinction feels too thin to walk.
I cross the apartment in four strides. Pull open the window, let in the sting of city air. It doesn’t help. Still feels too tight in here.
The mattress is stripped to basics. I didn’t even put up the coverlet they issued with the Bureau’s housing stipend. Just sheets. One pillow. Another standard-issue Glock is tucked under it.
I drop into the chair beside the desk instead, and let the creak of old wood remind me where I am.
She’s not here.
But that doesn’t stop me from thinking in the present tense.
Lydia Carr.
I say the name in my head and it tastes different now. Not sterile like a Bureau file. Not transactional like an alias or a known asset.
Personal.
Wrong.
I draw the blinds. Turn the lock again. Then I bring out the laptop from where I kept it securely, move back to the desk, and place the laptop on it. I should plug in. Report movement. Flag Lydia’s address, now that I have it. Input times. Notes. Intel.
I don’t.
I just sit there.
I haven’t spoken to her again since the logistics office.
But now her name’s tattooed on the backs of my eyelids.
This is why Naomi gives speeches about distance. About containment. About the risk of masks becoming skin.
She’s not wrong.
But she’s not here, and she didn’t see Lydia.
Didn’t feel that stare cut straight through the Bureau wire stitched under my ribs.
I finally rise. Strip off the rest of my clothes. Leave them on the floor and slip into the bathroom.
The shower hisses when I twist the tap, water punching through old pipes like a threat.
I stand under it until the steam fogs the mirror and blurs the man looking back.
It’s not me that he’s watching.
It’s her.
The mirror is a fogged-out echo.
Steam slides down the cracked tile. The kind of building that pretends not to leak.
I dry myself off but don’t dress.
Just sit.
Towel slung across my hips. The fan ticking in the ceiling like it's counting something down.
I check the clock.
3:42 AM.
Which means the dead-drop's probably already gone live.
I drag the laptop out again. Tap twice. The screen stutters awake, soft blue light licking the corners of the room. The encrypted relay pings once. Green.
Location: Dock 17, utility substation.
Tag: BLACK RIB 38
Note: CONFIRM PRESENCE. 0500.
I close it again and reach for a clean shirt. Tactical black. I leave the front open and shove the sleeves to my elbows.
Holster goes on second. Then the burner phone. Then the switchblade tucked vertical behind the waistband.
At five a.m. the city is only half-alive — an hour that belongs to ghosts.
Dock 17 has its own silence.
Not peaceful. Just hollow. The kind of place where sound dies before it echoes.
Cargo crates tower like mausoleums. The bay stinks of salt and rot and rust.
I clock movement by the electrical panel — half-shadowed, crouched. A man zipping a bag. Broad shoulders. Civilian jacket. Steel-toed boots.
Crest: Steele. He’s one of the bureau’s men.
He straightens when he sees me. Nods once. He doesn't bother offering a handshake.
"You're early," he says.
"I'm always early."
He gives me a look that says he doesn't care, then tosses me the bag.
"Here's the piece you asked for. And fresh plates if you need to move fast."
I unzip the duffel and check. Sig Sauer. Clean. No serial. Heavier than I’d like, but reliable. There’s a folded envelope inside. Photos.
I scan through them. Surveillance shots. Drazen’s warehouse. Dom’s club. A few faces I don’t recognize.
Then I stop.
She’s in one.
Lydia.
Grainy shot. Partial profile. But it’s her. Standing near a black car, phone in hand, sunglasses on. Cool. Controlled.
No timestamp.
“Where was this?” I ask, holding it out.
“East sector. She showed up near one of Drazen’s side properties. Two days ago.”
My pulse goes still.
“You didn’t mention that in the notes.”
“I didn’t know she was a person of interest.” He shrugs. “She’s not on the org chart.”
“She’s not.”
“Then why are we talking about her?”
I don’t answer.
He watches me anyway.
And then—just like that—he figures something out.
Not a full picture. Just the shape.
“You’re circling her,” he says. “Even if you don’t know why.”
I close the folder.
Zip the bag.
Steele doesn’t stop talking.
“You think she’s clean?”
“I think she’s in deeper than she wants anyone to know.”
“Or she’s exactly where she belongs.”
I look at him.
“You think she’s a threat?”
“I think you’re the one acting like she’s not.”
The pause stretches, and the dock wind shifts.
He doesn’t push after that. Just jerks his chin at the bag and turns back toward the lot.
“You need another drop, you know how to ask. And hey—” he calls back over his shoulder.
“What?”
“Whatever that woman is to you? Better figure it out before Naomi does.”
He’s gone before I answer.
I don’t follow.
I just stand there, watching the skyline shift behind the cranes — faint purple trying to split the dark.
The city isn’t awake yet. But something under it is.
One photo.
One sideways glance in a blurry image.
And suddenly I’m more exposed than she is.
I slide the picture into my jacket.
And walk the long way home.