The other one pulled out his phone, thumb already moving. His expression tightened. "Dead. Mesh network's down."
The tall one muttered out loud. "That wasn't scheduled." His hand slipped toward his belt—not a weapon, something else, probably a fallback relay. Whatever it was, it wouldn't work anymore.
They'd just realized they weren't the ones running this meeting anymore.
They stopped talking.
Both men focused on the flickering tablet between them as if it might explode. The screen stuttered again, then collapsed into digital snow for three seconds before it pulled itself back together. When it did, the image was different—it was a live feed now, timestamped in the lower corner.
My pulse slammed against my ribs.
Dorian blinked. On-screen. Barely, but it was movement. In the background, the feed picked up a soft, rhythmic metallic clang—steady and spaced. It was like the sound of a container swing arm locking into place. I'd heard that enough times near the port to know it wasn't ambient traffic.
I took a half-step closer. Not enough to alarm them. Just enough to lower my voice and still allow them to hear.
"That's not a photo. It's a live feed. Where is it broadcasting from?"
The tall man didn't answer. His finger danced over the screen, trying to reset the display again. The shorter one turned his body just slightly, putting space between us. Not quite retreat. Not quite threat posture either. Something in between—a man recalculating the risk with each breath.
I took that breath away from him.
"Your tablet pulled the feed from a live source and routed it through a ghost mesh," I said. "But your relay's wide open. You didn't mask the signature properly. That's why you're scrambling."
"Shut up." The tall man was starting to unravel.
The shorter one turned toward him. "Control should've killed the link."
"Control doesn't know we're dark. They've lost everything. The live feed wasn't supposed to come to us."
Good. That meant Michael was in, scrambling their communications.
My phone buzzed. Just once.
I didn't look at it. I didn't need to.
Michael only needed one word to confirm what I already knew: Port.
The container yards. Somewhere in that sprawl of rust and cranes, they held Dorian. I'd find the exact place before sunrise—or die trying.
"You overplayed it," I said, adding a slight touch of amusement to my voice. "Next time you threaten someone, maybe you shouldn't leave your transmission window wide open."
The shorter man's hand twitched toward his jacket. He wasn't searching for a weapon. He grabbed a comms device that no longer worked. For the first time, he looked at me like he might actually be afraid.
"Pleasure doing business," I said.
They didn't answer. Both knew they'd lost control and could be in the crosshairs of an unseen threat. They were already moving—retreat disguised as strategy, descending the stairs with fast, silent steps. I didn't follow right away.
Let them pull their exit string. Let them call in the fallout. All they were doing now was covering their own backs.
I pulled my second phone from the inside pocket and checked the screen.
Message from Michael. "Port. Move."
His pin glowed red over a satellite image of the port's edge. Between the cranes and fuel silos sat a rust-scarred square labeledStructure B7. Three blinking thermals. One stationary. Two mobile.
I moved. Fast. Down the steps, three at a time.
Hoyle's befuddled couriers scattered as soon as their shoes hit the sidewalk—clean retreat choreography, but I recognized the nerves under it. The taller one moved southeast, jaw tight, phonealready to his ear. The other veered north toward Pike like he had somewhere to go to vanish.
