The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the docks slick and smelling of salt and rust. Rafael adjusted the collar of his coat as he stepped out of the car, the dim yellow lights stretching his shadow across the concrete like something fractured and uncertain.

He hated meetings like this—off the books, off the grid, where every breath felt like a negotiation with death.

“You’re late,” a voice said from the darkness.

Rafael didn’t flinch. “You chose the location. I chose the time.”

A man emerged from between stacked containers, tall, lean, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat. His accent was foreign—Eastern European, perhaps. Or deliberately...