“That’s what got him noticed,” Paarson corrects. “What got him killed is that he figured out what those routes were tied to.”
My chest tightens slightly as the pieces begin to align.
“And what’s that?” I ask.
Paarson hesitates, his gaze lifting to meet mine, something darker settling behind it.
“Smuggling,” he says.
“That’s not new,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees. “But this isn’t small-time. This is organized. Structured. Protected.”
“Protected by who?” I press.
“That’s the part you don’t want to know,” he says.
“I do,” I reply.
He shakes his head again, more firmly this time.
“You think you do,” he says. “But you don’t.”
I step closer, forcing his focus back onto me.
“Try me.”
Paarson swallows hard, his voice dropping even further.
“These routes don’t operate without oversight,” he says. “Not at this level. Not this consistently. This is coordinated from the top.”
The weight of that settles in immediately.
“How high?” I ask.
“High enough that people like me don’t ask,” he replies.
“And Tury did,” I say.
“Yeah,” Paarson says. “And he didn’t stop.”
I study him, letting the implications settle.
“This isn’t one-sided,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “It’s both.”
That lands harder than anything else he’s said.
“Why make it public?” I ask. “Why put him on the fence?”
Paarson exhales slowly.
“Message,” he says. “Control the narrative. Make it look like something simple. Something easy to close.”
“Defection,” I say.
“Or stupidity,” he replies.
