Chapter 5 Infiltration
Thursday, Ryan didn't go out. At six in the evening he walked into the small back room.
He dug through the metal cabinet and pulled out the black soft-shell jacket. Three years old. It hung loose on him now. He spread it out on the bed and stood there for a long time. Three years ago when he wore this, he ran six miles a day, swam a mile, could knock out a hundred push-ups. Now he was thinner. Shoulders a size narrower.
Folding knife on the inside of his left forearm. Glock at the small of his back. Flashlight clipped to the outside of his right thigh. Bandage wrapped around his ankle.
Voss pulled up the checklist in his vision. The last line popped up: Three years ago you wore that jacket and ran thirty miles through Aurelia. Shook an entire squad of pursuers. Now you don't even want to fight a bar drunk.
"Shut up."
"I'm just pointing out that you've changed."
Ryan ignored it and pushed through the back door.
Raven's Berth. Nine at night. He parked in the alley outside the docks. The floodlights at Berth B6 were on, sweeping back and forth across the container yard. Six guards. Two at the gangway with MP5s. The other four spread across the platform.
Ryan crouched behind a container and swept the area with a monocular. Black sedans parked toward the main gate. One man at the staff entrance, holding a newspaper.
He put the monocular away and moved east along the containers. The far east end of Berth B6 had no railing — just open water. From there to the stern gangway, roughly three hundred meters.
He stood at the edge and looked down. Water slapping against the concrete wall. Three years ago he'd swum through colder water, longer distances. But that was three years ago.
"You're hesitating," Voss said.
"I'm calculating."
"You're calculating whether you've still got it."
Ryan didn't answer. He slipped off the dock edge and entered the water almost without a sound. The cold rushed in through his collar and his body flinched back involuntarily — three years ago it wouldn't have done that.
Voss traced a route. Numbers flickered at the edge of his vision: core temperature 36.2°C, dropping.
Three hundred meters took seven minutes. Two minutes slower than before. He grabbed the stern gangway, fingers so stiff he could barely hold the iron rung. Waited three seconds. Nothing moved above.
"Core temperature thirty-five point five," Voss said. "Time to move."
"I know."
"Reaction speed is nine percent below baseline. If you need to shoot right now—"
"I know."
He moved along the deck toward the bow. At the entrance to the ship's cabin he heard voices inside, urgent.
The sound came from behind the second door on the right.
"Cargo's loaded. Moving Thursday night. Mr. Hunt said — no mistakes this time."
Another voice, lower.
"Someone's watching. But it's a cop. He won't come aboard."
Ryan's right eye lit up with data. Voss mapped the two people behind the door — one standing, one sitting.
"Him not coming aboard doesn't mean no one will," said the one sitting.
"Who?"
"You remember that job at Saltvein Port three years ago? The buyer's code name was—"
The door swung open. A man pushed out and nearly walked into Ryan. He froze.
Ryan's right fist caught him at the temple. The man folded. Inside the room, a second man sat behind an iron table. He looked up, mouth opening.
Ryan's left hand covered his mouth. His right hand brought the knife handle down above the man's ear. He slumped forward onto the table, face pressing into the documents.
Ryan closed the door and leaned against it, catching his breath.
"You didn't kill them," Voss said.
"Didn't need to."
"You used to—"
"That was then."
The man at the table was in his fifties. Gray hair, sharp nose. Ivan. One of Vladimir's old hands. He had the full records on the job from three years ago.
Ryan went through the documents. Under everything was a manila envelope. Two photographs inside.
The first was Ryan himself. An old file photo, three years back — tactical vest, rifle in hand, standing in front of an armored vehicle. Written on the back: Target confirmed. Code name: Fenrir.
The second was a bald, round-faced man with glasses. Candid shot, blurry background.
"Victor Bishop," Voss said. "Former Meridian arms dealer. Vladimir's biggest rival. After Vladimir died, he was questioned three times in Meridian investigations. Someone vouched for him every time."
Ryan stared at the face. Victor. The buyer had used the code name Fenrir to place the order — to kill Fenrir. Victor had taken Ryan's name and used it to put a price on his head.
"He's been using your identity," Voss said. "Your code name, your operational routes, your time on the oil platform — he knew all of it because—"
"Because someone told him," Ryan said.
"Ghost."
Ryan tucked both photographs into his pocket. He searched the unconscious man and found a phone, checked the contacts. One name appeared four times in recent calls — Mr. Hunt.
He put the phone back.
Footsteps in the corridor. More than one person. Getting closer.
Ryan stood behind the door, Glock already in hand. Voss fed him new data — distance, direction, count. Two people, one behind the other.
"If I fire, Anton will know," Ryan said quietly. Anton's car was parked at the main gate. Anton's man was at the staff entrance. A gunshot would carry. Every exit would close.
Voss's data stream hung in his vision for 0.3 seconds.
"So you're going to let go again?"
The footsteps stopped outside the door. A knock.
"Ivan? Ivan, you in there?"
Ryan pressed flat against the wall behind the door. It swung open. A man in a black suit walked in, right hand resting on his holster.
"Ivan?"
Ryan's left elbow came down on the back of his skull. The man pitched forward and Ryan caught him by the collar with his right hand, hauling him inside. The second man in the corridor already had his hand going for his waist, mouth opening to shout.
Ryan's Glock pressed against his throat. The sound died before it started.
"Don't move."
The man went still. In his pupils, the dark red data stream from Ryan's right eye reflected back.
Ryan walked him into the room with the gun barrel and closed the door.
He laid the two men out side by side, bound their wrists and ankles with the bandage wrap, and stuffed something into each of their mouths. When he stood up, the socket of his right eye throbbed like it might split open.
"You didn't have to hold back just now," Voss said.
"I told you. I didn't want to kill them."
"You didn't want to kill them because killing them would alert Anton."
Ryan didn't answer.
He holstered the Glock. Stepped to the door and cracked it open. Empty corridor. He walked out and went back the way he'd come. Halfway down the passage he heard shouting from deep inside the ship — probably a shift change, someone noticing the control room was empty.
He dropped off the gangway and hit the water. This time he didn't swim. He worked his way east along the concrete wall, fingers digging into the gaps, nails grinding raw. He hauled himself up onto the platform and lay flat, counting to three. The floodlight swept past. He rolled over the edge and crouched behind a container.
He pulled out his phone. A message from Selena: Anton's still at the main gate. Hasn't moved.
Ryan pocketed the phone and made his way through the containers to the alley. At the car he looked back once — the floodlights at Berth B6 were still sweeping, like an eye that couldn't close. The black sedan at the main gate still had exhaust drifting from the tailpipe. Anton was still waiting.
He started the engine and pulled out of the alley.
Victor. Charlie. Anton. Ghost. And whoever it was three years ago who used his name to buy his death.
He pressed the accelerator, like he could leave something behind.
Voss said nothing.
He pulled up outside the bar and sat in the driver's seat for a long time. He placed both photographs side by side on the steering wheel. On the left, himself — from three years ago, when he was still alive in some sense. On the right, a man he'd never met. The one who'd taken his name.
He flipped them over. He couldn't read the writing on the back, but he recognized the number — the date, three years ago.
"What are you thinking about?" Voss finally asked.
"I'm thinking — when Anton finds this man, whether he'll find me too."
"He's already looking."
Ryan tucked the photographs away. He pushed open the car door and walked into the bar.
A glass of whiskey sat on the counter. He didn't know when it had been put there. He picked it up and drank it in one go.
Then he sat in the dark and waited for morning.
