Maybe more.
I couldn't tell.
The knife was in my hand.
The gun was in my pocket.
The phone was in my other pocket, dark and silent, waiting for a message I didn't remember receiving.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I'm going in."
I moved.
The first man died before he knew I was there.
I came up behind him in the dark, my hand over his mouth, the knife sliding between his ribs. He made a sound—soft, almost like a sigh—and then he was gone, his body going limp in my arms, his blood warm on my hands.
I lowered him to the floor.
The second man was near the back of the warehouse, loading boxes onto a pallet.
He didn't hear me coming.
He didn't see me until I was standing in front of him, the knife still wet, my eyes watching his.
"Who are you?"
His voice was shaking.
"Where's Gabriel Mire?"
"I don't know—I don't know who that is—"
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—"
The knife pressed against his throat.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know—I swear—I just work here—I just move the boxes—"
"What's in the boxes?"
"I don't know—I don't ask—they told me not to ask—"
"Who's they?"
"Mercy Logistics. The people who run this place. They said if I asked questions, they'd—"
"Where can I find them?"
"I don't know—I've never met them—they communicate through cutouts—they're careful—"
