Chapter 10 Kiren
KIREN
Mikel kills the headlights but leaves the engine running.
Neither of us speaks. I study the warehouse from where we sit.
Corrugated steel. Two loading bays. One side entrance with a security light above it that burns too bright against the dark.
The main roll-up door is closed. There are no visible guards near the front.
The child.
The words continue to move through me in waves that never quite break cleanly. Rowan is pregnant, and Ivan knows. I learned both truths at the same time, standing over a dead man delivered to my gate like a warning from a rival arrogant enough to think I would read it as fear.
Mikel glances toward me. “You can still decide not to walk in.”
I keep my attention on the warehouse. “No.”
His mouth flattens slightly, though there’s no surprise in it. He knew the answer before he asked.
“We have men at the north fence, the south access road, and the west service line,” he states, his voice low enough that it blends with the hum of the engine.
“Karp is covering the back lot with four more. If Ivan brought extra vehicles in through the loading side, we should see movement there within minutes.”
“Should,” I say.
Mikel nods once. “If they parked earlier and killed the engines, the thermal picture gets worse.”
I open the glove compartment and take the small earpiece from inside. It’s barely larger than a coin, matte black, and simple enough that it disappears against the ear once it’s in place. I turn it once between my fingers while I study the warehouse lights glowing faintly through the windshield.
Ivan demanded I come alone. Which means he expects exactly that. No visible backup. No obvious communication. No hint that I took the warning less seriously than he meant it to be taken.
Men like Ivan build their confidence on details that most people overlook, and they spend years learning how to read the smallest irregularity in a room. The trick is giving them what they expect to see.
I lift the earpiece and slide it into place, pressing it lightly until it settles behind the curve of my ear. From the outside, it disappears completely.
“Mikel,” I murmur.
A faint crackle answers in my ear.
“Still here.”
“Keep the channel open,” I reply, watching the dark warehouse entrance through the windshield. “You hear everything. If the conversation changes direction, you move the team.”
There’s a short pause before he answers. “Understood.”
I close the glove compartment and release a deep breath.
“Give me nine minutes before you decide I’m taking too long,” I add quietly.
Mikel exhales once, the sound coming through the earpiece. “Don’t make it ten.”
“You’ll have line of sight on the western wall once I’m inside?” I ask.
“On the upper windows and the side entry,” Mikel replies. “Not the center of the floor.”
“That means he’ll keep himself in the center.”
Mikel studies the building with me. “If he wants you exposed, yes.”
I lean back into the seat and let my eyes move across the yard one more time.
A stack of old pallets sits near the east dock.
Two forklifts rest under a corrugated overhang near the secondary lot, forks lowered, paint dulled by grime and weather.
A line of freight cars waits farther down on a switching track.
Nothing about the place tells me Rowan is here. That matters. If Ivan wanted a handoff, there would be signs of containment. More guards. A perimeter near the entry. A separate point of control. He wants conversation first. Possibly blood. Likely both.
Mikel watches me from the corner of his eye. “You’re already deciding where he’ll stand.”
“I’m deciding where I would stand.”
“And?”
“He’ll want a clear lane to the exits and enough distance to feel clever.”
Mikel lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “That sounds about right.”
The old yard stretches in front of us, industrial and ugly in the way places like this always are, without even the dignity of pretending to be more than use and residue.
Oil darkens the pavement in wide, irregular stains.
Patches of dirty snow cling to the edges of the fencing and the shadows beneath the containers.
She was here.
That fact has been needling at me since I read the address.
Maybe not in this building, or even in this section of the yard, but close enough that I should have seen it sooner.
Close enough that I could have driven past without realizing I was within reach of her. The thought gathers behind my ribs.
Mikel reaches for the wheel, then stops and looks at me fully. “If he confirms she’s alive but not here, do not lose your temper,” he advises.
“I’m aware.”
“You can kill him after we have her.”
I turn toward him. “That sounds optimistic.”
“That sounds practical.”
There’s a reason Nikolai trusted him and a reason I do.
Mikel knows when to press and when to shut up, and tonight he has chosen pressure because he knows exactly where my mind has been since I read the note.
Rowan is alive. Rowan is pregnant. Ivan knows both.
If he puts either truth in front of me and smiles, there will be a brief and very real temptation to put a bullet through his mouth before he finishes the sentence.
Mikel knows that too.
“I’m not walking in blind,” I tell him.
“That isn’t what concerns me.”
I open the door before he can add more. Cold air rushes in hard, filling the car with the raw smell of the yard now that there’s no glass between me and the place.
My boots hit snow first, then broken pavement.
The cold gets into my lungs in one clean breath and strips away the last trace of warmth from the drive over.
Mikel steps out on his side and circles around the hood. Up close, the night draws harder edges around everything. Fencing. Rails. Steel doors. Stacked containers. Even the air feels metallic.
He straightens the collar of his coat once. “You have ten minutes before I decide your definition of alone has expired,” he remarks.
“Nine.”
His expression changes by half a degree. “That helps.”
I look toward Warehouse 17 again. “If it starts before then, come in fast.”
“You won’t need to ask twice.”
I nod and start across the yard.
The walk takes longer than it should, partly because the ground is uneven and partly because a thin layer of snow and ice forces me to watch every step.
Old freight yards like this distort distance at night.
Floodlights create harsh circles of visibility while everything between them fades into heavy darkness.
Somewhere far off, a forklift engine rattles to life before dying again. A chain knocks lazily against a metal post. Wind slips between two warehouses and pushes a sheet of loose plastic fencing against the frame with a dry, repetitive slap that echoes through the empty spaces.
I keep my pace even and slow, careful not to let any tension show in the way I move.
Ivan asked for me alone, which means he wants to watch the way I walk in, the way I carry my hands, and the places my eyes move first. Men like him build half their confidence out of small observations and then mistake that confidence for superiority.
The side door to Warehouse 17 is already open when I reach it. Not wide, just cracked open enough.
The security light above it buzzes faintly, throwing a harsh white glare over the concrete stoop and deepening the shadows inside the doorway. Rust stains the metal around the threshold, and a dark boot print near the jamb still looks fresh.
I pause for a moment and listen. There are quiet voices inside, and not many of them. I hear no sign of distress, no cry, no struggle, and no movement that suggests someone nearby is being held and trying not to be heard.
I step inside.
The warehouse interior opens around me in layers.
The front section is larger than it looked from the yard, with a concrete floor scored by forklift tires and long rows of stacked crates arranged to create narrow lanes between them.
Industrial lights burn overhead in selective rows, leaving broad sections of the ceiling in shadow while the lit areas below look almost staged.
A metal staircase climbs along the far wall toward a second-level catwalk.
Two loading doors sit closed to the left.
A pallet jack rests near the middle aisle.
There are men in the room, though fewer than I expected, and they occupy the edges in a way that confirms what I already knew on the walk in.
This isn’t where Rowan is being held. This is where Ivan wants me standing.
He stands near the center of the warehouse floor, far enough from the crate rows to keep open space around him.
Dark coat. Hands empty. He looks completely at ease.
His men linger behind him and along the walls, half hidden in the shadows.
The way they’re placed tells me this wasn’t thrown together.
Ivan planned it carefully, and he looks confident enough to believe that planning alone wins the fight.
He smiles when he sees me, and there’s nothing warm about it. Just satisfaction.
“You came,” he remarks.
His voice carries easily through the warehouse, smooth and low, like this is just another conversation instead of the kind that usually ends with bodies on the floor.
I stop ten feet from him and let my eyes move past his shoulder once before returning to his face. “You asked for that.”
Ivan notices the glance. “Looking for her already?”
“Yes.”
He folds his hands loosely in front of him. “Then I should save you a few minutes. Rowan isn’t here.”
The confirmation hits exactly the way he wants it to, delivered calmly enough to see what I’ll do with it. I don’t react. At least not where he can see it. My pulse stays even, and my breathing doesn’t change. But my focus narrows around the words he just said.
Rowan isn’t here.