3. The Hunter #2
I adjust the receiver, following the signal as it jumps. The next fragment comes through weaker, broken by interference from a truck reversing near the fuel tanks.
“...small vessel. No main manifest. Night two.”
“Container?”
“Hold until transfer.”
Static eats the rest.
I stay where I am, watching the guard near the blue container. He stamps out his cigarette and looks toward the low concrete building beside the fence.
He barely glances at the truck or the gate. His attention keeps returning to the building.
There.
Solace is not inside the container. The container is for the women Meridian still considers movable inventory. Solace is different. A witness. A problem. Evidence with a pulse.
Problems are kept close until someone decides whether to sell them, move them, or kill them.
I photograph the building again, catching the side door, the camera mount, the guard’s line of sight, and the blind edge created by stacked pallets near the refrigeration units. The gap is narrow, but gaps do not need to be generous.
They need to exist.
Across the yard, movement shifts near the service gate.
The younger guard pockets his phone and straightens as the white truck rolls forward twenty feet, stopping beside the blue container. The rear doors open. Two men climb out first, then turn back and reach inside.
A woman stumbles down between them.
Another follows.
Neither carries luggage. One has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The other keeps her head lowered, bare feet pale against the concrete.
The guard beside the container finally moves with purpose. He unlocks the chain, opens one door just wide enough, and the men push both women inside.
A sound escapes from the container, quickly muffled.
The door closes again. Chain back on. Lock secured.
The whole thing takes less than two minutes.
My phone vibrates once.
Steve: Received. Status?
I type with one thumb: Two prisoners just arrived at container. Calling shortly.
Across the yard, the side door of the concrete building opens. A man steps out, says something to the guard, then glances back inside before the door closes.
Light spills across the concrete for less than two seconds.
Long enough for me to catch a fleeting glimpse.
A narrow corridor. Interior lock. Old walls with lighter patches where something has been covered. One shadow standing just inside.
A woman's silhouette.
Auburn hair, perhaps.
Then darkness returns.
I lower the phone and watch the building.
Forty-eight hours is the official window.
Men like this rarely wait that long.
Mytilene Port, Lesbos, Greece. 2145 hours
I step deeper into the shadow behind the maintenance shed and call Steve.
He answers on the second ring.
No greeting.
Good.
“Report,” he says.
I keep my eyes on the low concrete building beside the freight fence. From here, I can see the side door, the camera above it, the blue container, the service gate, and enough of the commercial quay to track movement without exposing my position.
“Solace is likely being held in the concrete building beside the container,” I say.
“Likely?”
“I had a partial visual. Female height. Auburn hair. The door was open for less than two seconds.”
Steve says nothing for one breath.
“Alive?”
“Standing.”
It is the only answer I can give him.
A vehicle passes along the outer road, headlights sweeping across stacked pallets before disappearing toward the harbor office. The guard near the container shifts his weight and looks toward the building again. He does that too often. He does not guard the container. He guards what is beside it.
“Radio intercept confirms a transfer window,” I continue. “Forty-eight hours. Camp group first. Then the British woman if cleared.”
“If cleared for what?”
“Buyer, transport, or disposal. The channel was not specific.”
Steve swears softly. Australian, creative, controlled enough not to waste time.
“By sea?” he asks.
“Yes. Small vessel. No main manifest. They are avoiding ferry traffic.”
“Any complications?”
I look at the building again. Fresh hardware. New camera. Guard placement. Women inside the container. Solace kept apart from them. A witness held close to the water by men who have already decided she is a problem.
“A British social worker who did not know when to stop asking questions,” I say.
My voice stays flat.
Across the yard, the side door opens again.
A man steps out carrying a plastic crate.
He speaks to the guard, then turns back to the building.
Light spills into the lane behind him, narrow and yellow.
This time, I see the corridor more clearly.
Two interior doors. One camera. A chair positioned outside the second door.
No woman visible.
Still useful.
“Two guards external,” I say. “At least one internal. The container has air holes and chain. Women are inside, or were inside, recently. Truck remains in position near the fence, lights off. One small motor yacht at the commercial quay. Running lights dark.”
“Can you get closer?”
“Yes.”
“Should you?”
“No.”
Silence passes through the line, short and practical.
Steve understands the difference.
“Hold position,” he says. “Do not engage. We need all of them, not just one.”
That answer tells me more about HAVEN than the briefing did.
Some teams say rescue and mean extraction of the named target. Steve Hollands says all of them because leaving the unnamed women behind would be a different kind of failure.
“Agreed,” I say.
“I’ll wake Victor and pull Crew into the boat plan.”
“Crew is already looking at boats.”
“That’ll make him happy.”
“Will it?”
Steve makes a low sound that might be amusement. “Depends on the boats.”
I end the call and return the phone to my pocket.
The port keeps moving around me. Diesel smoke. Salt air. Men pretending freight is only freight. Behind the building wall, a woman coughs once, then falls silent.
I have tracked weapons, drugs, and criminals across this sea.
This is the first cargo with a name and a face I cannot stop seeing.