Chapter 16 – Silas - Break Protocol #3
I stand.
“You shouldn’t.”
When I turn to leave, it’s with a grim parting smile in her direction. All I think is: Whatever or wherever Marrow’s watching from? I’m coming for it.
I don’t head for the new apartment.
Instead, I traverse fourteen blocks in a different direction. Across the city’s rusted veins and shadow alleys where men like Marrow still crawl when they’re supposed to be dead.
The cold isn't biting yet, but it knows my name. It chases me through the East End, past shuttered supply shops and under bridges smeared with tags that haven’t meant anything in a decade. The ground smells like diesel and mold. Like the city itself has secrets it doesn’t want to keep anymore.
I turn left down the canal path, the one we used to run surveillance on cartel ghost trucks back before Drazen learned how to launder blood with better paper.
Two burners in my coat. My compact holstered behind my hip. The photo from Lydia’s loft folded inside my jacket like a line I’ve already crossed.
Marrow knew where she lived.
Which means he got past the cams.
Which means he’s Bureau.
Or worse: was.
I reach the pier, the dockyard still smelling like rusted chain and last week’s smuggled rot.
I scan the containers, the workers loading pallets, the men smoking in clusters near the water's edge.
Then I see him.
Leaning against a shipping container, cigarette burning between his fingers. Older than the surveillance photo Tyler sent—thinner, more worn down. But it's him.
The same posture. The same container setup. The same look of a man who's spent too many years on the wrong side of too many deals.
Jaime Soltero.
Mid-level facilitator from Marrow's last operation. The guy who moved goods, arranged meetings, kept his mouth shut and stayed off the radar.
I step up behind him, close enough to kill.
He senses me too late.
I slam him against the wall. Elbow pressed to his throat. His head cracks back and his cigarette flies.
“Soltero,” I say, not raising my voice. “We’re going to play a game.”
“Jesus—”
“Wrong answer.”
I twist his wrist until something pops. He grits out a whimper but doesn’t scream.
“Try again,” I say. “Where’s Marrow?”
“I—I don’t—he’s dead—”
I drive his shoulder into the rusted wall behind him. Paint flakes down like dandruff.
“You want to lie to me,” I mutter, “you better lie better.”
His breath catches. Then he wheezes: “Vasco… Vasco still gets his prints. That’s all I know. From that west-side salvage place—”
I grip his finger, the one with the busted knuckle.
Snap.
He screams.
“Now you’re bleeding,” I say. “And the next time I see you, you better have something worth that pain.”
I drop him.
He folds like a scared thing.
I’m already gone before he remembers to cry for help.
I hit Vasco’s place just before dusk locks in. The salvage yard is wrapped in barbed chain, fake “Under Renovation” signs strung along the fence like they mean anything.
I don’t knock.
I cut through the fence with bolt shears from the alley drop I cached three weeks ago. Enter quietly. Keep low.
The back building is barely lit; a strip of halogen leaks out from under the office door. The rest is steeped in darkness.
I make it to the second level, boots quiet across the warped steel floor.
Someone moves inside.
I slam the door open with the heel of my boot and draw.
The man inside jerks back, knife in hand, but not fast enough.
I shoot him in the leg before he finishes the swing.
He crumples. Yells once.
“You’re not Marrow,” I say, stepping over his blood trail.
“Fuck you—”
I plant my knee on his chest and shove the knife across the floor.
“You know where he is,” I say.
He spits.
I break his thumb.
He howls.
I wait.
He mutters something wet and ugly. A location. Cross streets. A burned-out flat he’s using near the old tram yard, underground.
He says one more thing, through teeth gritted with blood. “She’s not safe with you either. Now I see why Marrow always say that.”
I look him dead in the eyes. “No one is ever really safe.”
Then I knock him out.
Leave the blood to stain the floor behind me.
—
The tram yard's a ruin.
All weeds and busted tracks and graffiti that looks more like territory than art.
I move through the space carefully, checking sight lines, listening for movement. If Marrow's using this place, he wouldn't leave it unprotected.
I find the door tucked behind a false panel near the old maintenance shed.
It's subtle—most people would walk right past it.
But I know how Marrow operates. We worked a joint operation together once.
Spent three weeks embedded in the same criminal network.
I watched him set up safe houses, rig alarms, plan escape routes.
He was meticulous. Paranoid. Always three steps ahead.
I crouch down and examine the doorframe.
There. A thin wire running along the edge, nearly invisible in the dim light. Magnetic contact alarm. Simple but effective—door opens, magnet separates from the sensor, circuit breaks, alarm triggers.
I pull out the small toolkit I keep in my jacket. Multitool, penlight, a spare magnet I lifted from a hardware store months ago for situations exactly like this.
I hold the spare magnet against the sensor on the doorframe—keeping the circuit closed—then carefully pry the door open a few inches.
No sound. No movement.
The alarm still thinks the door is shut.
I slip the magnet into place with electrical tape, securing it so the sensor stays satisfied, then push the door open fully.
Still nothing.
Good.
I step inside.
The apartment is a single room. Half-split with crates and blacked-out windows. No furniture except a cot, a desk, and a cracked sink with blood already in it.
He’s here.
I hear him shift before I see him, crouched behind a beam, pistol out, eyes red-rimmed and twitching.
Kellan Marrow.
Very much alive.
He sees me the same moment I see him.
For half a second, neither of us moves.
Then he goes for his gun.
I'm faster—barely. I close the distance before he clears leather, slamming into him and driving us both into the wall. His weapon hits the floor and skitters away.
He doesn't hesitate. Drives an elbow into my ribs—hard, precise, the kind of strike that comes from the same training I had. I feel something crack.
I shove him back and swing. He blocks it, counters with a palm strike to my jaw that snaps my head sideways.
We're the same. Same training. Same instincts. Same muscle memory drilled into us until it became reflex.
Which means this is going to be ugly.
He comes at me low, tries to sweep my legs. I shift my weight, knee him in the shoulder as he drops. He grunts but recovers fast—too fast—and catches my arm, twisting it into a joint lock.
Pain shoots up my shoulder. I slam my heel down on his instep, hard enough to feel bones give. He releases me with a hiss and I spin, catching him across the jaw with my elbow.
He staggers but doesn't fall.
Blood on his lip now. Eyes sharp. Calculating.
"You don't know what you're doing," he says, voice rough.
"I know you're watching her." I pull my gun, aim it at his chest. "I know you left that photo. And I know you're supposed to be dead."
He laughs—low, bitter. "You think pointing a gun at me changes anything?"
"Your name," I say. "Your last clearance file. Why the fuck are you watching her?"
He doesn't answer. Just shifts his weight slightly, eyes flicking to something behind me—a tell, a distraction.
I don't fall for it.
But he moves anyway. Fast. Lunges for the gun on the floor.
I fire.
The shot hits the wall next to his head—close enough that he flinches, close enough that he knows I could've killed him.
He freezes. Breathing hard. Hand inches from the weapon.
"Don't," I say.
He looks up at me. Blood dripping from his mouth. Something broken in his expression—not fear, but resignation.
"Too late," he mutters. "You're too late."
Then he moves.
Not for the gun. For the door.
I grab him mid-motion, yank him back. He twists, drives his fist into my kidney. I double over but hold on, drag him down.
We hit the floor hard. He fights like a man who's had to unlearn mercy, every strike meant to maim, to end it. I block what I can, take the rest, and slam my fist into his temple once, twice.
He bucks, tries to throw me off. I drive my knee into his ribs—feel them give—and hit him again.
This time, he goes limp.
Not unconscious. But close.
I pin him there, breathing hard, blood in my mouth.
"Why are you watching her?" I ask again, voice raw.
He coughs. Spits blood. Then, barely audible:
"Because someone has to."
I tighten my grip. "That's not an answer."
His eyes flick up to mine—exhausted, resigned. "I got hired. Six months ago. Outfit trying to move into Drazen's territory. They needed intel on his operation."
"And Lydia?"
"She's his fixer. Knows everything—contacts, structure, vulnerabilities. My job was to watch her, figure out if she could be turned or if she was a liability." He winces. "I filed my report three days ago. Said she couldn't be flipped."
My chest tightens. "And?"
"And nothing." He almost laughs. "The outfit got taken down two days ago. A raid in the industrial district. You probably heard about it—multiple arrests, whole network dismantled."
I did hear about it. A coordinated takedown. Large-scale operation.
"So the threat—"
"Gone. Dead. Whoever was planning to move on Lydia doesn't exist anymore." His voice is flat. "My contact went dark. Payments stopped. I tried to reach out—nothing."
"Then why are you still here?"
He looks away. "Because I'm already dead. No identity. No way back. This was all I had left—one last job. And when it disappeared..." He trails off. "I didn't know what else to do. So I kept watching. Out of habit. Out of something."
"The notes. The photo."