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"Are you sure about these locations?" I asked Krause through the car's speaker system.

"Pretty damn sure." His voice came through with the confidence of someone who'd spent years tracking Russian operations. "Boarded up meatpacking plant in Vernon. Auto body shop in Van Nuys—they use the paint booth and everybody turns a blind eye. And a warehouse near the docks in San Pedro."

"Makes sense for me to take Vernon," Krause continued. "You take San Pedro. Simon, you can hit Van Nuys since you’re in Malibu. I’ll text you both the addresses."

My phone buzzed with the locations thirty seconds later. I pulled away from Eddie's girlfriend's house and headed for the highway, my ribs screaming with every breath.

The 405 South was a parking lot even at this hour. I merged into traffic and immediately wanted to throw the rental car off a bridge. No acceleration and I couldn’t change lanes for shit. When I did manage to change a lane, it sent fire through my ribcage. The body armor pressed against the cracked bones like a vise.

Forty minutes to reach San Pedro. Forty minutes while Eddie Pope could be bleeding out in some warehouse.

The industrial area near the docks sprawled out like something from a post-apocalyptic movie. Empty buildings, chain-link fences with rusted "CLOSED" signs, cracked pavement sprouting weeds. Most of the warehouses looked abandoned, victims of shipping industry consolidation or businesses that had moved operations overseas.

Perfect place to torture someone. No witnesses. No one to hear screaming.

I spotted the target warehouse three blocks from the water. Different from the others. The chain-link gate stood open. A black Escalade sat parked near a side door.

Russians.

I drove past, keeping my speed casual, and parked two blocks away behind another abandoned warehouse. I killed the engine and sat for thirty seconds, listening.

Distant traffic from the highway. A ship's horn from the port. Nothing close.

I climbed out carefully, every movement deliberate. The Sig Sauer felt solid against my back. Krause's body armor sat tight across my chest, the plates pressing into my damaged ribs with each breath.

The warehouse loomed three stories tall—corrugated metal siding, windows on the second and third floors dark with grime and decades of neglect. Exterior metal stairs zigzagged up the south side of the building.

I circled the perimeter, staying low, using abandoned equipment for cover. No guards posted outside. Sloppy. They were confident, comfortable, not expecting company.

That would be their last mistake.

The exterior stairs groaned under my weight, so I forced myself to step lighter. Each step sent shockwaves through my torso. I clenched my jaw and kept climbing, one hand on the Sig, the other gripping the rusted railing.

On the second floor a service door hung half off its hinges. I eased it open, and slipped inside.

The interior catwalk ran the length of the building, metal grating suspended twenty feet above the warehouse floor. The only light in the place came from below.

Voices drifted up from the ground level. English with thick Russian accents.

And screaming. Eddie's screaming.

I moved along the catwalk, each footstep placed with precision despite the pain radiating from my ribs. The grating was solid, no give, but sound carried in the empty space and I couldn’t afford to be heard.

Through the metal framework, I could see them. They actually had two fucking ring lights set up facing Eddie, like they were ready to film a TikTok or some shit.

There were three men. All big, all armed. Eddie was tied to a metal chair in the center of the warehouse floor, his face a mask of blood. They'd worked him over hard. Broken nose, swollen eyes, cuts across his cheeks.

A cell phone sat on a folding table, speaker engaged.

"Where is Russell Dunlap?" The voice from the phone was cultured, precise English with a Russian accent underneath. Viktor Sokolov.

"I don't know!" Eddie's voice came out thick, distorted through swollen lips. "I've been trying to find him for weeks! I swear!"

The largest Russian—shaved head, tree trunk neck, Makarov in a shoulder holster—stepped forward and drove his fist into Eddie's stomach. Eddie doubled over as much as the restraints allowed, retching.

"You worked with him." The interrogator's tone stayed conversational. "You know how he thinks."