Page 57 of Hard Bargain

Dominic looked out the window. “I want to see how he thinks.”

“And if he doesn’t like what he sees?”

Dominic didn’t hesitate. “He’ll adjust.”

Cassian looked at him, but didn’t comment.

Normally he’d let people earn access slowly, piece by piece. You didn’t throw someone into the deep before they’d learned to swim; that wasn’t efficiency, it was waste. But he’d done it with Knox anyway, he knew it, and he hadn’t stopped himself.

He told himself it was pragmatic. No point investing in someone who’d flinch when things got uglier. You found out early or you found out later, and later cost more.

That wasn’t the whole truth.

He wanted to see it—the shift in Knox’s eyes when things turned darker. Whether he’d step back or whether he’d step closer. He wanted to know what Knox would become when the illusion dropped.

And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he wanted to be the one who showed him.

Chapter 16

Knox

The Port of Stockton didn’t look like anything special from the outside. Just steel fencing, shipping containers stacked like dull-colored bricks, cranes stretching into the sky, and the smell of diesel and river water clinging to everything.

It didn’t look like the kind of place empires ran through.

Mendez drove past the main security booth without slowing. Knox expected at least a pause: a credential check, a radio call, a moment of scrutiny. Instead, the guard glanced up, recognized the SUV, and lifted the barrier without a word. The second SUV, carrying four of Dominic’s men, followed close behind and received the same treatment.

“That’s it?” Knox asked.

Mendez didn’t take his eyes off the road. “You thought we’d sneak in?”

“I thought there’d be… something.”

“There is,” Mendez said. “You just don’t see it.”

Knox looked back at the guard booth as it shrank in the side mirror. Something cold settled under his ribs. They weren’t slipping past security. They belonged here.

Inside the yard, forklifts moved in steady lines between container rows. Dockworkers in reflective vests crossed lanes with clipboards and coffee cups. A patrol vehicle drifted by without slowing. The entire port operated with the calm rhythm of routine.

Mendez drove deeper into the yard until he slowed near a blue container set slightly apart from the others. Two men in reflective vests stood nearby, hands in their pockets, posture loose but eyes alert. Knox recognized them from the warehouse. “Those ours?”

“Of course.”

The second SUV parked behind them. Its doors opened almost in sequence as four men stepped out and dispersed with quiet efficiency.

Knox got out into the diesel-heavy air and realized that this wasn’t a simple pickup.

A dock supervisor approached, Port Authority insignia stitched neatly over his jacket, clipboard tucked against his side. He greeted Mendez with easy familiarity. Paperwork exchanged hands—bills of lading, container IDs, clearance stamps. Everything looked legitimate, stamped and signed.

Knox leaned closer and caught enough detail to understand that on paper, this container held industrial irrigation components shipped from overseas.

When Mendez handed the folder back, Knox saw the folded cash slide into the supervisor’s palm, shielded mostly by paper. The supervisor didn’t hesitate. He tucked it away, made a small notation on his clipboard, and stepped aside.

Right, Knox thought. Okay.

As if on cue, a white vehicle rolled down the lane and stopped a short distance away. U.S. Customs and Border Protection was written across the door in bold lettering.

Knox felt the shift before anyone spoke. The four men didn’t tense, not exactly, but their attention sharpened.