“He figured out those routes weren’t just logistics,” I say. “They’re tied to something bigger.”
“How big?” she asks.
I hold her gaze.
“Big enough that both sides are involved,” I reply.
The words land hard, and I see it in the way her posture stiffens as the implication settles in.
“That’s not possible,” she says.
“It is if nobody wants it exposed,” I reply.
She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting again.
“Smuggling?” she asks.
“Organized,” I say. “Structured. Protected.”
“By who?”
“That’s the part nobody’s saying out loud,” I reply.
Silence stretches between us, but it isn’t empty.
“You’re thinking the same thing,” she says.
“Probably,” I reply. “You say it.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“Dadams,” she says.
I nod once.
“Yeah,” I say. “He shut it down too clean.”
“And controlled the narrative,” she adds.
“That’s not caution,” I say. “That’s control.”
Her expression tightens further as the conclusion settles in.
“He’s central,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply.
She studies me for a moment, her gaze searching mine in a way that feels different than before.
“You’re sure,” she says.
I step closer, closing the remaining distance.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I am.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment.
Then she nods.
