[ complete ] 𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 || 𝐉.𝐉𝐊 𝐅𝐅

85. Child.

The storage park smelled like mildew and old paper — a dozen metal doors breathing out the heat of a city that had forgotten what used to live inside them. We rolled in under the cover of night, headlights off, the convoy a line of black shapes that dissolved into the dim beyond the chain-link fence. I moved like a shadow, boots barely touching the gravel, pulse loud only to me.

Kian was next to me, voice low in my ear. “Teams split. Ryker’s on cameras, Ivan with two go in through the main gate. You and I take the inner row. If Marko’s here, he won’t be ready for both of us.”

I didn’t answer; there was no need. My throat felt tight like a fist. I thought of Aarohi’s small voice, of Advait sitting on that rug telling himself stories to keep hope alive. Those images were fuel. They made me silent because words felt wasted and heavy. We moved.

The keypad to 22B was a cheap thing, easy for Ryker and his gadgets. Within thirty seconds the latch sighed and the door rolled up like a lazy eyelid. Dust motes swirled in the lamp from Kian’s torch. Inside: boxes, crates, a pallet jack. Near the back, a plastic crate labeled GREY FINCH — clean handwriting. On top, a thick binder stamped “Logistics — Marlowe.”

I moved to it like a man with the map to a buried city.

“Don’t touch anything that will set off alarms,” Kian murmured. “Ryker, loop cams now. Ivan, sweep the perimeter. No surprises.”

“Looped,” Ryker’s whisper crackled in our earpieces. “You’ve got eight minutes of blind. Make you’re fast.”

I flipped the binder open. Receipts, manifests, scanned IDs. My heart thudded louder as I read names that were supposed to be meaningless — shell companies, drop-off dates — until one entry cut through the paper like a knife: Marlowe Street, Unit 13 — Received: 2 children — Date: two nights ago — Handler: MARKO — Destination: SUNSET PINES Motor Lodge, Room 6 (temporary) — Final: HOLD 9 (Greenhouse address: 1648 East Route).

I felt something in my chest change. Not relief — that would be too kind — but a structure around the fury: a line to pull, a path to follow.

“Kian,” I said, voice low and raw, “Marlowe. Marko. Sunset Pines. Greenhouse on Route 1648.”

He looked at the binder, his face unreadable in the torchlight. “Good. Move. I’ll send a team to Sunset Pines now. You want to cut off the final leg or take Marko live?”

I didn’t have to think. “Live.” Not for mercy. For answers. For the way people who looked into their guilt could be used to chart where the children were hidden. “Get him breathing, but talk to him while he still believes there’s a tomorrow.”

We split. Kian’s truck slid away as Ivan and two others locked down the perimeter. My men and I moved toward the fenced section where a pale van had been parked in the feed Ryker showed me — dented right door, faded blue paint, a license number pattern. My fingers only trembled once.

We found Marko near the back alley — not on guard like a sentinel, but pacing like a rat. He looked up when we stepped from shadow to shadow, and for one stupid second I saw the slick confidence of a man who’s never been told no. That was fast gone.

“Marko,” I said, and my voice had a weight to it that wasn’t mine alone. “You’re dead if you run. You’re dead if you don’t talk. Choose.”

He laughed first — a thin wet sound. “Jeon Jungkook. Heard you were a ghost story. Figured the papers lied.”

“You made one mistake,” I said. “You moved my children. You’ll be remembering that the rest of your life. Or you’ll tell me where Junghyun keeps them and I’ll let you whimper while you live.” I stepped closer. My hand brushed the wood of his forearm like I was touching the line I intended to cross.