CHAPTER 7 #2
By the end of the week, his investors were nervous, his board was furious, and his wife had discovered that his “leadership retreat” in Monaco had involved significantly less leadership than advertised.
Lawson had done it all without leaving his ergonomic chair.
So no, I never told Lawson his job was easy. I enjoyed having access to my money.
Lawson didn’t so much sit as drape himself into the chair Maddox dragged over, stretching his long legs out like he’d just acquired waterfront property. His laptop was open before his back even hit the metal, and his fingers were already moving across the keys.
Lawson carried the kind of tan that suggested he answered encrypted emails from yachts.
Unlike the rest of us, he could work from anywhere .
. . and he did so, often. His dark brown hair was cut messily, a single blond streak falling forward no matter how many times he shoved it back.
It gave him a perpetually reckless look that matched his hoodie and the grin always tugging at his mouth.
Maddox really hated Lawson’s hoodie.
“I love it when people try to be clever,” Lawson said, not looking up as his fingers flew across the keyboard. “It makes my job more fun.”
“Tell me you have something,” I replied, folding my arms as I stared at some graffiti on the warehouse wall opposite us, where, in bold spray paint, someone had immortalized the words Big Fart.
“Oh, I have lots of somethings,” Lawson said cheerfully. “Telemetry, AIS data, engine output, ballast fluctuations. I pulled the whole digital autobiography. This vessel has overshared.” He turned the screen and zoomed in with a flick of his fingers.
“Right here,” he continued. “Twenty miles off the coast, the engines reduced output for exactly eleven minutes. Not long enough to raise alarms, but definitely long enough to matter . . .”
Maddox leaned in. “That’s the window.”
“Exactly,” Lawson agreed, flashing him a grin that said he loved being right. “Long enough for a mid-water transfer if everyone involved knew their roles.”
I studied the screen, watching the data scroll past. Coordinates. Engine output. A neat little dip in performance, like a heartbeat skipped on purpose. “So they never came near the docks,” I said.
“Nope,” Lawson said. “This was all offshore. Someone with access, timing, and a truly inspirational amount of confidence.”
“That confidence,” I said evenly, “was misplaced.”
Lawson’s expression sharpened, the amusement turning focused. “I’m pulling traffic anomalies in the surrounding radius. There’s a vessel that tried very hard to blend into background noise. Which, ironically, made it glow.”
The captain came in then, pale and sweating, escorted by two of my men.
He was older and thick through the middle.
Salt was still crusted into his beard and on his collar, and his eyes were darting everywhere except at me.
That told me most of what I needed. Innocent men tended to bluster . . . they got loud and offended.
This one was thinking.
Lawson didn’t bother looking up when the chair scraped against the concrete and the captain was encouraged into it. “Oh good,” he said pleasantly, still typing. “I was hoping we’d have a human element. Data is informative. People are . . . illustrative.”
The captain swallowed hard. “I already gave my statement.”
Maddox leaned against a crate, his arms folded and his suit somehow still flawless. I really needed to learn his secrets.
“You gave a statement,” Maddox agreed. “We’re just here for the honest one.”
I took my time walking toward the captain, letting the silence do some of the work for me. “Let’s not make this dramatic,” I said. “It’s been a long night, and I dislike repeating myself. Tell me why you slowed your engines—”
The captain’s jaw worked. “I don’t know what you think—”
I nodded once to my men, and the captain flinched as hands settled on his shoulders. Another set of hands yanked his arms behind the chair, plastic biting into his wrists as zip ties cinched tight.
Lawson finally glanced up, pursing his lips like he was appraising a piece of art.
“Before we start,” he said thoughtfully, “I just want to point out that your ship slowed twenty miles off the coast for exactly eleven minutes. Which is impressive, because it means either your engine coughed at a very inconvenient moment . . . or someone asked you to do it.”
“I—I don’t—”
Maddox sighed. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend confusion is going to save you.”
I crouched slightly so we were eye level. “Who boarded the ship?”
The captain shook his head, breathing fast. “No one boarded.”
That earned him looks from all three of us.
“Buddy,” Lawson said, wincing sympathetically, “the data says otherwise. And the data has never lied to me. People, on the other hand, lie constantly.”
I straightened and nodded again. The chair tipped just enough to make the captain yelp, panic breaking through his composure.
Maddox chuckled under his breath. “See? You’re already being much more honest.”
The captain was sweating through his collar now, and his teeth were clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jumping beneath his beard. He stared straight ahead with glassy, stubborn eyes, like if he didn’t look at us long enough, we might decide he wasn’t worth the effort.
That didn’t work for a squirrel crossing the street . . . and it wasn’t going to work for him.
Lawson kept typing, unbothered, the steady rhythm of keys cutting through the silence. Maddox glanced at his watch and exhaled faintly, as if the only real inconvenience here were that we were running behind schedule.
He pushed off the crate and circled the captain slowly, his shoes echoing against the concrete. “I’ve always admired this part,” he said conversationally. “The optimism. The belief that if you just hold out, something miraculous will happen.”
Still nothing.
One of my men stepped forward and placed a compact black case on the crate beside the chair. He opened it slowly, like he was unveiling priceless jewels instead of torture devices. Inside, everything was arranged with clinical precision.
I admired the slender pliers, the wire cutters, the narrow blade honed to a surgical gleam. Syringes rested in sterile packaging beside a small vial of clear liquid, and a pair of heavy clamps sat nestled in foam—industrial grade, weighty, the kind designed to grip bone and not let go.
The tools finally got a reaction out of the captain.
“Oh,” Lawson said, peering inside. “You brought the good ones. Nice.”
The captain’s pupils were blown wide, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked bursts, like a trapped animal that finally understood the cage had teeth.
“Who boarded the ship?” I said again. “How many? Who sent them?”
He swallowed so hard I heard the click in his throat as I picked up the pliers. “Wait—”
I didn’t wait. I grabbed his left pinky, yanked it straight, and clamped the pliers around the nail bed.
One clean, brutal twist, and the nail tore free with a wet rip.
Blood welled instantly, and the captain screamed.
I held up the bloody nail between us like a trophy, letting it drip onto his lap.
“The first one teaches you what it feels like,” I told him. “The rest just reinforce it.”
He was gasping now, sweat pouring down his face, mixing with the tears already streaming from his eyes. His body was shaking so violently that his chair was rattling.
Maddox leaned down, his voice almost kind. “You can stop this whenever you want.”
I wiped the pliers on the captain’s shirt, leaving a smear of red across the fabric. “Let’s try this once more. Who boarded the ship? How many? Who sent them?”
He shook his head frantically, snot and tears mixing on his upper lip. “I don’t— I swear I don’t—”
I moved to the next finger, and this time I didn’t bother with the nail.
I clamped the pliers around the joint and squeezed until I felt the bone give with a sickening pop.
The scream that tore out of him was high-pitched, and I saw Lawson wince out of the corner of my eye.
Blood trickled down the captain’s hand, dripping onto the concrete in steady plops.
I watched it pool for a moment, almost mesmerized.
“Three men,” the captain choked out. “Two from the dock crew . . . one I didn’t recognize. They came in on a blacked-out utility barge just after midnight. Someone had reached out to me last week about expecting it and where to be.”
I didn’t let go of his mangled finger at that news . . . I just twisted a little harder because it annoyed me that he’d betrayed us a week ago and I hadn’t found out.
He sobbed. “They took stuff from three containers—the ones marked for the Rossi shipment. They didn’t tell me why.”
Lawson perked up. “See? Progress.”
“Accents?” I asked.
The captain nodded eagerly. “Irish, maybe? One of them had a scar—across his cheek. They didn’t give names. Just cash.”
I released his hand, and it flopped uselessly against the armrest, blood smearing fresh streaks across the wood.
“Good boy,” I murmured as I straightened, wiping my hands on the rag Lawson tossed me.
The captain was shaking violently now, his face ashen, and his lips trembling so hard his teeth chattered.