The black SUV idled like a predator at rest, its engine a low, guttural thrum that vibrated through the asphalt beneath Cole's feet. The man in the driver's seat—the one with the scar running from mouth to jawline—kept his phone pressed to his ear, waiting for an answer. Cole held his own phone in a grip that had turned his knuckles white. Beside him, Ada Cross had gone very still, her hand resting just inside her jacket, where Cole suspected she kept a weapon of her own.
"Mr. Cole," Gregor Toth's voice repeated, silky and patient. "I don't make a habit of repeating myself. Get in the car. Bring your associate. We have matters to discuss that are best not aired in a customs parking lot."
Cole covered the mouthpiece and glanced at Ada. "He wants us to get in the vehicle."
"Absolutely not," Ada hissed. "Getting into a car with a known criminal in a deserted dockyard is how people end up in the harbor with concrete shoes."
"I'm aware of the cliché." Cole uncovered the phone. "Mr. Toth. If you want to talk, we can talk here. Neutral ground. I'm sure the Port Authority has a coffee shop somewhere nearby."
Toth laughed, a dry, rattling sound like stones in a tin can. "You've been reading too many detective novels, Mr. Cole. If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead. My men have been watching you since you arrived at the ferry terminal. You walked into a federal customs warehouse and walked out with evidence that doesn't belong to you. I could have called the authorities. I didn't. Instead, I'm offering you a conversation. That should tell you something about my intentions."
Cole weighed his options. Toth's logic was sound, which made it all the more dangerous. The smuggler had them at a tactical disadvantage—exposed, outnumbered, and far from any help. If Toth wanted them dead, the SUV would not have stopped fifty yards away. It would have pulled up beside them, and the doors would have opened, and things would have happened very quickly. The fact that they were still standing, still breathing, suggested that Toth genuinely wanted to talk. But what he wanted to talk about, and what he wanted in exchange for letting them walk away, were questions that made Cole's stomach clench.
"Five minutes," Cole said. "You and me. My associate stays outside."
"Ten minutes. Both of you. I insist on meeting the famous Ada Cross. Her reputation precedes her."
Ada's eyes widened. The fact that Toth knew her name, her reputation, was unsettling. It meant his intelligence network was deeper than they had assumed. It meant he had been tracking them as carefully as Stahl had.
"Ten minutes," Cole agreed. "But the doors stay unlocked, and your men stay in the vehicle."
"Agreed." The line went dead. The rear door of the SUV swung open, revealing a dim, leather-upholstered interior. The scarred driver gestured toward it with a tilt of his head.
Cole and Ada walked toward the vehicle, every instinct screaming at them to run. Cole could feel the weight of the pistol in his bag, but he knew it would be useless in a confined space against multiple armed opponents. This was a diplomatic mission now, not a tactical one. They climbed into the back seat. The door closed behind them with a heavy, expensive thud.
Gregor Toth was not what Cole had expected. He had pictured a thug, a brute, the kind of barrel-chested enforcer who ruled Port Tyne's underworld with fists and fear. The man sitting across from them, in a jump seat that faced the rear bench, was something else entirely. He was lean, almost gaunt, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes the color of old amber. His hair was iron-gray and cropped close to his skull. He wore a tailored suit in charcoal wool, a white shirt open at the collar, and no tie. His hands were folded in his lap, and on his left wrist, just visible beneath the cuff of his shirt, was the Ouroboros tattoo. Up close, Cole could see that it was not ink but a brand, the serpent's coils burned into the skin with a precision that must have been excruciating.
"Thank you for accepting my invitation," Toth said. His accent was difficult to place—Eastern European, perhaps, but overlaid with something else, something that spoke of years spent in international waters. "I apologize for the dramatics. The docks are not the most hospitable venue, but privacy is hard to come by in New Albion these days. Especially with men like Viktor Stahl watching everything."
"You know Stahl," Cole said.
"I've known Stahl for a very long time. Longer than he would like to admit." Toth reached into his jacket and produced a silver cigarette case. He offered it to his guests; both refused. He lit one for himself, the flame from a match briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his face. "I know that he faked his own death three years ago. I know that he's been running a private crusade against me ever since. And I know that he's been using you, Mr. Cole, as a pawn in that crusade. The question is, do you know it?"
"We figured out most of it," Ada said. Her voice was steady, but Cole could hear the tension beneath it, the coiled spring of adrenaline waiting to be released. "We know Stahl hired Cole to surveil Victor Lang. We know Lang is in debt to you, and that he's been feeding you information about customs inspections. We know you're using Dock 14 to smuggle something—and it's not untaxed whiskey."
Toth took a long drag on his cigarette, his amber eyes never leaving Ada's face. "You're very well-informed, Ms. Cross. The customs samples you took—I assume you plan to have them analyzed. Dr. Miriam Haas in Glencairn, if I'm not mistaken. She's very good. She'll identify the chemical precursor within hours of receiving the samples. And then you'll know the truth. But by then, it may be too late."
"Too late for what?" Cole demanded.
"Too late to stop what's coming." Toth exhaled a plume of smoke that curled against the SUV's tinted windows. "Let me tell you a story, Mr. Cole. It's a story about the NIA, about Viktor Stahl, and about a classified operation called Project Echo. Have you heard of it? No? That doesn't surprise me. The NIA spent a great deal of effort burying Project Echo after it went wrong."
Ada leaned forward, her suspicion momentarily overtaken by curiosity. "What was Project Echo?"
"It was a covert program designed to disrupt the flow of chemical weapons precursors through international shipping channels. The NIA identified several smuggling networks—mine included—that were moving dual-use chemicals disguised as commercial products. The chemicals were being used to manufacture nerve agents, primarily for sale to paramilitary groups in conflict zones. The operation was noble in intent, but deeply flawed in execution."
"Flawed how?" Cole asked.
"Stahl was the lead field operative. He was brilliant, relentless, and utterly convinced of his own righteousness. He infiltrated my network, posed as a buyer, gathered evidence. But he made a critical mistake. He became obsessed with catching me personally, to the exclusion of all else. He ignored orders. He compromised other operations. He put agents' lives at risk. When his superiors tried to rein him in, he accused them of corruption, of being in league with the very smugglers he was hunting. He became unstable, paranoid."
Toth paused, tapping ash into a small silver tray set into the armrest. "Eventually, the NIA shut down Project Echo. Stahl was relieved of duty, pending a psychological evaluation. But before the evaluation could take place, he disappeared. A week later, his death was announced. Heart attack. Very tragic. Very convenient."
"You're saying Stahl is insane?" Ada's voice was sharp with skepticism.
"I'm saying Stahl is a man who cannot accept failure. He built his entire identity around being the hero who would bring down Gregor Toth. When that was taken from him, he had nothing left. So he faked his death and continued the mission on his own terms. For three years, he's been waging a one-man war against my organization. And now he's using the Supreme Court case, the liquor licensing dispute, Victor Lang—all of it—as cover for his final move."
"Which is?" Cole asked.
Toth met his gaze, and for the first time, Cole saw something in those amber eyes that looked almost like fear. "Stahl has acquired a sample of the chemical precursor I've been shipping. He intends to release it in a public place, somewhere connected to the liquor industry, and make it look like my organization is responsible. A chemical attack, blamed on me, timed to coincide with the Supreme Court ruling. The resulting panic would bring down the full weight of federal law enforcement on my operations. And Stahl would emerge from the shadows as the hero who warned everyone about the danger. His redemption. His vindication."
The silence that followed was absolute. Outside the SUV, the wind had picked up, rattling the chain-link fences and whipping the surface of the harbor into whitecaps. Cole's mind was racing, trying to process the implications. If Toth was telling the truth, then Stahl was not a fixer or a facilitator. He was a domestic terrorist, a rogue agent planning a mass-casualty event to frame his old enemy. But if Toth was lying, then this was a manipulation designed to turn Cole and Ada against Stahl, to weaponize them in the smuggler's own defense.
"How do we know you're telling the truth?" Ada asked, echoing Cole's thoughts.
Toth reached into his jacket again and produced a small USB drive. "This contains documents. NIA internal memos about Project Echo. Stahl's psychological evaluation—the one that was never completed. Correspondence between Stahl and his handlers. And most importantly, surveillance footage from a warehouse in Port Tyne, taken three days ago, showing Stahl removing a sealed canister from one of my shipments. The canister contains enough precursor to contaminate a city block. I don't know where he's storing it, or when he plans to use it. But I know he's running out of time. The Supreme Court ruling is expected within days. If Stahl is going to act, it will be soon."
Cole took the USB drive, his fingers numb. "Why give this to us? Why not go to the authorities yourself?"
"Because the authorities are compromised. Stahl still has allies in the NIA—people who believe his version of events, who think I'm the monster and he's the martyr. If I walk into a police station with this story, I'll be arrested before I finish the first sentence. You, on the other hand—you're independent. You're credible. And you've already been investigating the case from a different angle. You can take this evidence to someone who will listen."
"There's a catch," Ada said. "There's always a catch."
Toth smiled, a thin, humorless expression. "The catch is that you're now caught between two men who want each other dead, and you don't know which one is telling the truth. Stahl will tell you I'm a terrorist and a murderer. I'm telling you he's a rogue agent planning a false-flag attack. The evidence I've given you could be fabricated. The evidence Stahl has given you could be fabricated. You have no way to verify either story, not in the time you have. So you'll have to make a choice. Trust Stahl. Trust me. Or find a third option."
He leaned forward and pressed a button on the door panel. The locks disengaged with a soft click. "Your ten minutes are up. I suggest you get the samples analyzed. Talk to Dr. Haas. Read the files on that drive. And then decide what kind of people you want to be. The kind who wait for the truth to be revealed, or the kind who go out and find it."
Cole and Ada got out of the SUV. The cold harbor wind hit them like a wave, and Cole realized he had been holding his breath for most of the conversation. The SUV's doors closed, and the vehicle pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the gathering darkness. They stood alone on the dock, the USB drive heavy in Cole's pocket, the vials of smuggled liquid clinking softly in his bag.
"What do you think?" Ada asked, her voice barely audible over the wind.
"I think," Cole said slowly, "that we have two men, both admitting to serious crimes, both accusing the other of something worse. And I think we don't have enough information to believe either of them."
"So we do what Toth suggested? Get the samples analyzed? Read the files?"
"We do more than that." Cole turned to face her, his expression grim. "We go back to the beginning. We find the one person who's been in the middle of this from the start. The one person who knows both Stahl and Toth, and who's been lying to everyone from day one."
"Victor Lang," Ada said.
"Victor Lang. He's the weak link. He's scared, he's compromised, and he's been playing both sides. If anyone knows the truth about what Stahl and Toth are really up to, it's him. We find Lang, we get him to talk, and we figure out which story holds up."
"And if neither story holds up? If there's something else going on entirely?"
Cole looked out over the dark waters of the harbor, where the lights of the container ships blinked like distant stars. "Then we find the third option. Because I have a feeling, Ada. A feeling that both Stahl and Toth are telling us only what they want us to believe. And the real truth is something neither of them wants us to find."
They walked back toward the ferry terminal, the wind at their backs, the city of Port Tyne sprawling around them in a maze of steel and shadow. Somewhere in that maze, Viktor Stahl was watching, waiting for his pawns to make their next move. And somewhere in the elegant corridors of the Cascade Liquor Council, Victor Lang was nursing his secrets, unaware that two very determined investigators were about to kick down his door.
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