Chapter 18 – Silas – Collateral #2
That would be enough.
That would be more than enough.
I curse under my breath and slam my palm against the wall. The hollow sound rattles down the vent shaft. I glare unforgivingly at the reflection in the mirror above the sink.
I sit down hard in the chair and close both fists in my lap.
That bastard Drazen put his hands on her.
He doesn’t get to walk away from that.
No one does.
A message buzzes through on my phone.
Unknown number. No name. Just a time: 17:00
No location.
That's deliberate.
Drazen never gives the full picture upfront. He sends the time first—lets you sit with it, lets the anticipation build—then drops the location an hour before, sometimes thirty minutes. Just enough time to get there.
It's a control tactic. Keeps you off-balance.
I stare at the message.
17:00. Five o'clock this evening.
That's eleven hours from now.
Eleven hours to wonder what he knows. What he's planning. Whether Lydia will be there.
Whether this is about her at all.
Or whether it's about me.
I don't reply. He doesn't expect me to.
The location will come later.
It always does.
I shut down the screens.
Pocket the phone.
And pull open the side drawer where I left my knife. Its blade is still clean.
I don’t plan to keep it that way.
The air shifts around 6:17 a.m.
Not outside—inside me.
Something clicks. Like a loose chamber finally aligning in the barrel. Not clarity. Not calm. Just readiness.
I shut the surveillance logs. My eyes sting from hours of staring, but I don’t stop moving.
I need to get ahead of this.
Information is the only weapon I trust more than a bullet.
Then my phone buzzes.
Naomi.
I answer. "What did you find?"
"Not over the phone." Her voice is clipped. "We need to meet."
"When?"
"Now. But not the café. Things are complicated right now."
I hear what she's not saying: We might be watched.
"Where?" I ask.
"Riverside walking trail. South entrance."
"I'll be there."
She hangs up.
I grab my jacket and head out.
The walking trail runs along the industrial side of the river—concrete path, sparse trees, more joggers than benches. It's public enough to blend in, isolated enough to talk.
I spot Naomi about a quarter mile in, leaning against the railing overlooking the water. Dark coat, hair pulled back. She's already scanned the area—I can tell by the way she's positioned herself with clear sightlines in both directions.
I approach at a steady pace. Stop a few feet away, facing the same direction she is. We look like two strangers taking a break from our morning walk.
"What did you find?" I ask.
"Chatter." She doesn't look at me. "After our call, I reached out to a contact in organized crime intelligence. Asked if there'd been any movement in Drazen's network in the last twenty-four hours."
"And?"
"There's been unusual activity at one of his off-book locations. A penthouse in the east-side industrial corridor. Increased security presence as of yesterday evening. No shipments scheduled, no operations logged. Just bodies on-site."
I process that. "You think that's where he took her."
"I think if he's holding someone, that's where he'd do it." She pauses, then turns to face me fully. "But I need you to listen very carefully, Silas. I'm telling you this because you asked. Not because I'm authorizing you to act on it."
I meet her gaze. "Naomi—"
"No. Let me finish." Her voice is firm. "Lydia Carr is not your primary assignment. Drazen is. You were embedded to gather intelligence on his network, identify key players, and build a case we can prosecute. That's the mission. She is not part of that mission."
"She's part of his operation."
"She's an associate. An asset at best. And you're compromised when it comes to her.
" She leans slightly closer, voice dropping.
"I haven't reported your involvement with her.
I've kept it off the record because I believed you could manage it.
But if you go charging into that penthouse, if you blow your cover trying to extract her, you don't just burn yourself.
You burn me. You burn this entire operation.
And you potentially get both of you killed. "
I look back at the river. "So what am I supposed to do? Sit back and wait while Drazen does whatever he wants with her?"
"You're supposed to stay in role. Maintain your cover. And trust that if she's valuable to him, he's not going to kill her without cause." She exhales slowly. "I know that's not what you want to hear. But it's the reality of undercover work. You can't save everyone."
The silence stretches between us.
Finally, I speak. "He contacted me this morning."
Her expression shifts. "Drazen?"
"Message came through around seven. Time only: 17:00. No location yet."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. "He's calling you in."
"Looks like it."
"And you don't know what it's about."
"No."
She turns back toward the water, hands resting on the railing. When she speaks again, her tone has shifted—less handler reprimanding an agent, more strategist working through a problem.
"This could be routine. Check-in, new assignment, something unrelated to her."
"Or it's a test."
"Or it's a test," she agrees. "If he suspects you're too close to Lydia, which I’m sure he is, this could be his way of gauging your reaction. Seeing if you ask questions. Seeing if you show concern."
"So I stay cold."
"You stay professional." She glances at me. "You go to that meet like it's any other day. You don't ask about her unless he brings her up first. If he does mention her, you respond the way any of his men would—interested in how it affects the operation, not in her personal wellbeing."
"And if she's there?"
"Then you treat her like any other asset in his network.
You don't react. You don't make eye contact unless it's natural.
You certainly don't try to communicate or signal her in any way.
" Her voice hardens. "If he's testing you, the moment you show attachment is the moment you confirm his suspicions. "
I grip the railing tighter but say nothing.
Naomi reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out something small—a device no bigger than a car key fob.
"Take this. Micro-tracker. When you get the location, activate it before you go in. Press and hold for three seconds. It'll ping a dedicated frequency. I'll have a surveillance team positioned at a distance—far enough not to compromise you, close enough to extract if things go sideways."
I take it, turn it over in my palm. "How close?"
"Two vehicles. Four agents. Monitoring only unless the situation actively deteriorates." She pauses. "But understand—this is off-book. If it comes back on anyone, it comes back on you. Not me. Not the Bureau. You're operating without official authorization."
"Understood."
"And Silas?" Her tone softens, just slightly. "I'm giving you backup because I don't want to lose an agent. But if you walk into that meet and make a move that compromises your cover for her, I can't protect you. The Bureau can't protect you. You'll be on your own."
"I know."
She studies my face for a long moment. "Do you? Because the man who called me at 6 AM didn't sound like an agent managing an asset. He sounded like someone who's already decided she's worth more than the mission."
I look back at the river. "She's not part of the mission. I know that."
"Then act like it." She straightens, adjusting her coat. "Stay sharp. Stay smart. And whatever happens at that meet, remember who you are and why you're there."
She walks away without another word, hands in her pockets, blending into the sparse morning foot traffic along the trail.
I stay at the railing a few minutes longer.
The tracker feels heavy in my pocket.
I head back to my apartment.
The drive is automatic—muscle memory taking over while my mind runs through what's coming. Naomi's words loop in my head: Stay professional. Don't react. Stay sharp.
I can do that.
I have to.
By noon, I'm showered, dressed in clean clothes—dark jeans, button-down, nothing that draws attention. I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Same face. Neutral expression. I practice it once: the look of a man who doesn't care about one missing woman.
It doesn't sit right, but it'll have to do.
I pocket the micro-tracker Naomi gave me, making sure it's concealed in my jacket's inner lining. Easy to access, impossible to spot.
Then I head to the logistics office—the shipping coordination hub where I'm supposed to be working when I'm not running jobs for Drazen.
The office is busy when I arrive. Phones ringing, guys moving between desks with manifests and cargo schedules. I sit in my office, pull up shipping logs I'm supposed to be reviewing, and try to look like I'm working.
My mind isn't settled. It's running scenarios, calculating risks, imagining what I'll find at 5 PM.
But I don't let it show.
I keep my face neutral. My movements routine. Just another day.
Around 3 PM, one of the coordinators—Harry—stops by my desk asking about a container schedule. I give him an answer, keep my tone even, professional. He nods and moves on.
Good.
At 4:07 PM, my phone buzzes.
I glance down.
Unknown number.
The message is short, clear:
5 PM. Harlow Tower, Penthouse Suite. Dom will meet you in the lobby.
I stare at the screen for a moment, then delete the message and pocket the phone.
Naomi was right.
Harlow Tower. East-side high-rise overlooking the waterfront.
One of Drazen's properties—expensive, private, the kind of place where security doesn't ask questions.
I pull out the micro-tracker, hold it under my desk where no one can see, and press the button for three seconds. A faint vibration confirms activation.
Naomi's team will be watching now.
I close the shipping logs on my screen, grab my jacket, and stand.
"Heading out?" Harry asks from across the room.
"Yeah. Meeting."
He nods, doesn't ask questions. People around here know better.
I walk out into the late afternoon air. The sky's overcast, heavy and gray like it's holding its breath.
I get in my car and drive east.
Toward the tower.
Toward whatever Drazen has waiting.