Chapter 6 Kiren #2
The warehouse off Remington still does what it was designed to do.
It’s controlled, private, and insulated from noise and outside interference.
On the street, Jonathan Moreno is leverage for whoever reaches him first. At Remington, he answers to me, and that means no one touches him without permission.
The overhead industrial lights spread a pale wash across the room, illuminating dust suspended in the air that has not moved enough to feel warm.
The space is intentionally sparse. A metal table against one wall.
Two folding chairs positioned beneath the lights.
No unnecessary objects to distract attention.
Jonathan sits in one of those chairs, wrists unbound but posture restricted by pain.
The cast on his left arm is scuffed and gray at the edges, the fabric fraying where moisture has seeped in and dried again.
His knuckles are swollen. The bruise along his jaw spreads downward toward his throat in darkening gradients, and his lower lip has split along the center line, a thin crust of dried blood pulling when he speaks.
The skin around his right eye is swelling shut, thickened, and beginning to discolor, narrowing his field of vision.
Karp stands behind him without touching him, but close enough that Jonathan is aware of the proximity. The temperature in the warehouse is cool enough that Jonathan’s breath shows faintly when he exhales. He watches me approach with a look that attempts confidence but trembles at the edges.
“You going to tell me what this is about,” he demands, his voice aiming for control his body can’t quite manage.
I remove my coat slowly and place it over the back of the chair opposite him before sitting, smoothing the cuffs of my shirt as he watches.
“What happened tonight?” I ask evenly.
He lets out a strained breath, shoulders tightening against the metal as the movement drags pain across his side.
“Collection,” he replies. “Same as usual.”
His eyes dart briefly toward Karp before returning to me.
“You working with them?”
I let the silence linger long enough for him to reconsider the question.
“Who removed you from the vehicle?” I question.
“Two guys,” he answers. “Didn’t give names.”
“Describe them.”
He swallows, his jaw tightening as he tests the range of motion available without triggering pain.
“One shaved head. One with a beard. Both heavy. Didn’t talk much.”
He studies my face for recognition and finds none.
“They broke your arm previously?” I continue.
“Yeah,” he answers, and the word carries both frustration and humiliation.
“And tonight?”
“They wanted to see if I healed.”
His fingers twitch against his thigh again before he forces them still by pressing his palm flat against the metal chair.
“How much do you owe?”
He looks away briefly toward the concrete floor.
“Sixty-two thousand,” he replies after a pause. “With interest.”
“And this escalated in the last six months?”
He tries to sit up straighter, then gives up and angles himself away from the pain.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I got in deep.”
“You don’t look like a man who enjoys risk.”
He lifts his chin slightly.
“Didn’t think it would get this far.”
Few men do.
“They increased the rate,” he continues, words coming faster now. “Late fees. Penalties. They said if I kept winning, I’d clear it. Then I stopped winning.”
“And your sister became aware.”
His posture changes immediately at the mention of Lila. His spine straightens despite the pain.
“She always knows,” he replies quietly. “She checks on me even when I tell her not to.”
“And she offered to resolve the debt?”
He nods.
“She told me she found a way. Said she met someone who could fix it.”
His throat tightens as he speaks.
“She gave them five thousand and then told me to stop answering their calls.”
“And you complied?”
“Yeah.”
He glances again toward Karp, then back to me.
“You’re making it sound worse than it is.” His uninjured hand curls into a fist against his thigh.
I lean back in the chair, folding my hands loosely in front of me.
“It’s worse than you think.”
His back teeth grind as he holds my gaze.
“Why?” he asks. “Who are you?”
“I review structural problems. Your debt is one of them.”
He studies me more closely now, trying to place my tone rather than my title.
“When did you last speak with your sister?”
“Three days ago,” he answers. “She sounded stressed. I asked if it was about me. She told me not to make everything about myself.” His mouth twitches faintly, almost a smile, but it falters quickly. “She said it was handled.”
“And the man she met?”
He hesitates.
“She said he was serious,” he replies. “That he cared about her.”
Serious. I make a mental note of it.
“You never met him?”
“No.”
“Did she describe him?”
“She said he was confident,” Jonathan answers slowly, recalling. “That he had connections.”
Connections.
He believes this is still a romance layered over financial relief.
“And you believed this man could eliminate sixty-two thousand dollars without consequence?”
He looks down at his hands.
“I believed my sister wouldn’t lie to me.”
The simplicity of that response has more impact than bravado.
“If this man is connected to the individuals who assaulted you tonight,” I continue carefully, “then your sister is involved with organized crime.”
He studies my face, searching for anger, threat, or accusation, finding none.
“You think she’s mixed up in something shady?” he says slowly.
“I know she’s not at home.”
His head lifts sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s unreachable.”
The metal legs of his chair scrape slightly against the concrete as he leans forward despite the pain.
“What do you mean unreachable?”
“She hasn’t been located,” I answer matter-of-factly.
The color drains from his face.
“She told me she had it handled,” he repeats, his voice thinner now. “She wouldn’t disappear. She’s not irresponsible,” he insists.
“Responsibility doesn’t stop someone from using you,” I tell him.
His breathing turns uneven, cold air leaving his mouth in visible bursts.
“You think this is because of me?” he asks, voice lower now.
“You gave them a way in,” I reply. “They used it.”
He lowers his eyes again, his shoulders curling inward.
“I didn’t know,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “You didn’t.”
I watch him absorb that. There’s no deception in him. No rehearsed narrative. He believes this began and ended with money.
He doesn’t know about Rowan. He doesn’t know about Ivan beyond the image his sister presented.
If Lila believed Ivan could erase this debt, she either misjudged his power or never understood it.
If Ivan is working for Arkady, and Lila is with Ivan, then taking her doesn’t make sense.
A man doesn’t remove someone who’s aligned with him unless he doesn’t control the decision.
So either Lila never knew how deep this ran, or Ivan doesn’t have the authority he presents.
“You won’t be harmed further,” I inform Jonathan quietly.
He looks up quickly.
“Why?”
“Your debt has been transferred.”
“To who?” he questions, his eyes narrowing.
“To me.”
His lips part slightly, and he releases a short breath.
“You bought it?”
“I did,” I confirm.
“Why?”
“Because leverage should be controlled.”
His brow furrows as he attempts to process that answer.
“So, what happens now?”
“You answer when called,” I reply. “You provide information when asked. You don’t disappear or attempt to contact the men who assaulted you.”
“And my sister?”
“If she reaches out,” I continue, “you inform us immediately.”
He nods slowly.
“She’s really missing,” he says, his voice breaking slightly at the edges.
“She’s not where she should be,” I reiterate.
His chest rises and falls unevenly.
“I thought she was happy,” he murmurs.
Happiness can be manufactured long enough to mask the truth.
“Medical evaluation,” I tell Karp. “Then move him to the Oakridge property. Restricted access.”
Karp nods once.
Jonathan watches me, confusion cutting through the fatigue. He won’t be going back to that apartment. Not while he’s leverage.
“You’re not going to hurt me?” he asks, less question than disbelief.
“No,” I reply evenly. “You are more useful alive.”
He nods once, swallowing again.
As Karp guides him toward the exit, Jonathan pauses.
“If she trusted this guy,” he says without turning fully, “maybe he didn’t know.”
That possibility has already occurred to me.
I’ve already considered that. If Ivan didn’t know Lila would be taken, then he isn’t the one in control. It’s definitely Arkady. And if he did know, then he allowed it.
Neither option simplifies this.
By the time I return to the estate, the temperature has dropped again. The sky hangs low and colorless over the drive, and the trees stand rigid along the perimeter.
The gates open as my vehicle approaches, the iron retracting along concealed tracks. The house is lit from within, every window monitored, every entry point secured. From a distance, it looks calm. It always does.
Inside, warmth replaces the cold bite of outside air, though it doesn’t reach deep enough to loosen the tension in my shoulders.
The foyer smells faintly of polished wood and citrus cleaner layered over older scents that cling to the stone and plaster.
My footsteps echo briefly across the floor as I move toward the study.
Mikel waits near the desk, one hand resting against the back of a leather chair. He stands easy but still, his eyes fixed on me.
Polina appears on the wall display a moment later, her image cutting across the dark glass, numbers and maps moving behind her.
“Ivan increased outside coordination over the last forty-eight hours,” Polina says. “Messages are routed through layered third parties. Nothing traces back to him directly.”
I remove my coat and lay it over the back of a chair before stepping closer to the desk.
“Money?” I ask.
“Minimal movement. He’s not paying out of his own accounts.”
Of course, he isn’t. Arkady keeps his hands clean, and Ivan follows the same rule.
I rest both hands against the edge of the desk and lean forward, the light from the wall display reflecting faintly across the polished wood.
“Arkady’s channels?”
Polina nods.
“Three shell accounts tied to port logistics. Two pushed irregular transfers yesterday. One stalled briefly before rerouting through a Baltic freight intermediary.”
The reroute matters.
“Route history?” I question.
The wall display changes, tracing the movement across offshore accounts designed to look routine unless someone follows the trail.
Mikel steps closer, folding his arms as he studies the lines.
“He’s covering his tracks,” he observes.
Arkady doesn’t move money without burying it. If it surfaced long enough for us to see it, he wanted it to pass somewhere harder to reach.
That’s not panic. That’s planning.
“Ivan remains in contact with two external crews,” Polina says from the wall display. “Activity increased near the industrial train yard. Vehicle movement suggests repositioning rather than delivery.”
He isn’t delivering. He’s moving into position.
My shoulders square as I study the train yard overlay. “Keep eyes on him.”
I move to the sideboard and pour vodka into a low glass, the surface flashing briefly before I turn back toward the display. “I want Arkady restricted.”
“How far?” Mikel asks.
“Far enough to be felt.”
Polina’s hands move out of frame. “If we freeze the Baltic intermediaries, he’ll know.”
I lift the glass, roll the vodka once against the bottom without drinking, and watch the shipping routes glow faintly behind her image.
“That’s fine,” I say. “He should.”
Mikel studies the illuminated lines. “He’ll take it as escalation.”
I take a slow sip before setting the glass down again, the burn tracing its way down.
“It is,” I answer, meeting his eyes. “But not loudly.”
I step closer to the wall display, one hand bracing lightly against the edge of the desk as I look at the corridor Polina has highlighted.
“Don’t touch anything central,” I continue. “Choose something he considers stable. Something that runs quietly in the background.”
Polina adjusts the image to a warehouse along the east corridor. Steady traffic, moderate volume, and no overt protection.
I study it for a moment, then nod once.
“That one,” I say. “Forty-eight hours. Restrict the Baltic transfers and wait. I want him watching that when the second disruption hits.”
Mikel nods once. “Disable. Don’t destroy.”
“Correct.”
Polina’s voice cuts back in. “Baltic accounts flagged. First restriction is active.”
Somewhere inside Arkady’s network, an alert will appear, not as an attack but as a limitation.
I move toward the window and rest my hand briefly against the glass. Outside, the lawn sits quiet under the sweep of security lights, nothing disturbed.
Arkady doesn’t delay without purpose. If Rowan were meant to disappear, it would’ve been done already. He’s keeping her. That means she’s useful.
“You think Arkady isn’t telling Ivan everything,” Mikel says from behind me.
“Yes.”
“Why keep him blind?” Mikel questions.
“Because blind men are easier to sacrifice.”
If Ivan doesn’t see the full board, he’s expendable. That makes him unstable. And unstable men make mistakes.
Polina’s voice cuts in. “Ivan hasn’t returned home. He’s moving between temporary locations.”
I turn slightly back toward the display.
“He’s uncertain,” I say.
Confidence stays still. Doubt moves.
“Maintain surveillance,” I tell her. “Any deviation, I want it immediately.”
“Understood.”
“He’ll respond,” Mikel says.
“He won’t have a choice.”
“And when he does.”
“We’ll see what he protects first.”
Mikel nods once and leaves without another word.
When the door closes, I move to the watch case along the far wall and open it, selecting one without studying the face before fastening it around my wrist.
Arkady moved first. Now I control the pace.