Chapter 41 - Return to the Concrete Jungle
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The transition from the pristine, quiet sanctuary of the foundation to the suffocating, chaotic sprawl of the city was jarring. I drove the nondescript black SUV through the pouring rain, watching the towering glass and steel skyscrapers swallow the horizon. The streets were slick with oil and neon reflections, pulsing with an endless, frantic energy that I had not missed. This was a city built on secrets and exploitation, the exact breeding ground for men like Silas.
I parked the vehicle in a secure, underground parking garage in the industrial district, miles away from the Narrows. I needed to establish a foothold before I made my move. I pulled my collar up against the biting wind and walked three blocks to a dilapidated diner that smelled of stale grease and old coffee.
I slid into a back booth, keeping my back to the wall, watching the door. Ten minutes later, a man slid into the booth across from me. He was older, his face deeply lined, wearing a worn trench coat. His name was Carver, an information broker from my past life who owed me a blood debt.
"I honestly thought you were dead, Arthur," Carver said quietly, stirring a packet of sugar into his coffee without looking up. "Or retired. Same thing in our line of work."
"I was busy," I replied coldly. "I need current intel on Silas. He’s operating out of Warehouse 44 in the Narrows."
Carver scoffed, shaking his head. "Silas has moved up in the world since you ghosted. He doesn't just run Warehouse 44; he owns the entire dockyard security force. He has fifty armed men on rotation, heavily heavily fortified. You can't just kick the door in."
"I don't plan to," I said, leaning forward. "He is expecting a shipment of human cargo in the next forty-eight hours. I need to know exactly when that ship docks, and I need the name of his current lieutenant."
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Carver looked around nervously. "His right-hand man is a psycho named Vance. Runs a high-end underground club downtown called The Apex. But Arthur, if you go after Vance, you are kicking a hornet's nest."
"I'm not going to kick it," I promised, sliding a thick envelope of cash across the sticky table. "I'm going to burn it down. Get me the docking schedule."
