“No.”
“Where?”
“Montgomery. Two months ago.”
Shadow pulls out his phone and starts typing.
“More,” I say.
The man’s head rolls slightly. “I don’t know.”
I crouch in front of him. Eye level. That scares him more than standing over him.
Good.
“Who else has her folder?”
His face blanks. “What?”
I don’t repeat the question.
He looks from me to Logan, then back. “I don’t know.”
The room stills. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just every man in it understanding he gave the wrong answer.
My control changes. Not breaks. Not slips. Changes. Patient violence has a different shape.
The man sees it and starts talking too fast. “I don’t know. I swear. The scout maybe. Whoever requested her. The middleman. Maybe transport if the file goes with her. I don’t know how many copies.”
Copies.
The word cuts deep. Her picture. Her family. Her routine. Passed hand to hand. Bought. Sold. Studied.
I stand.
Logan’s eyes are on me.
Shadow’s too.
Joker smiles again, slow and faint, like he recognizes the exact moment violence stops being a reaction and becomes a plan.
“Wrong answer,” I say.
The man starts begging. Not words worth writing down. Just noise.
I don’t hit him yet. That would be easy. I turn to Logan instead. “They have a chain. We find every link.”
Logan’s face stays hard. “We will.” He hears it. The personal edge under the strategy. I don’t pull it back. I just don’t acknowledge it. Logan steps closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t get to turn this into a private war.”
“It isn’t private.”
“It is if you start making calls off instinct.”
“This is information.” I hold his stare. He isn’t wrong. Doesn’t matter. “They had her folder,” I say.
“I know.”
“They had her routine.”
