Page 130 of Fractured Allegiance
I order black coffee and open the laptop.
Start with what I can verify.
Silas Ward.
I pull up search engines and start with the basics. Social media, public records, anything that gives me a sense of who he is outside of what he's told me.
There's a LinkedIn profile. Silas Ward, logistics and supply chain management. Based in Miramont. The profile is clean but sparse—generic job description, no recommendations, minimal connections. The kind of online presence someone builds when they need one but don't actually use it.
I dig further. Public records show an address registered to his name—an apartment on the east side. Utilities in his name. A vehicle registration. Everything checks out on paper.
But there's something off about how clean it all is.
No social media activity beyond the bare minimum. No tagged photos. No digital footprint beyond the essentials. For someone his age, that's unusual. Most people leave traces everywhere—posts, comments, check-ins, interactions.
He doesn't.
Either he's intensely private, or this identity was built to look legitimate without being used.
I screenshot the details and move on.
After what seem like forever, I lean back, staring at the screen.
Hours of searching, and I still don't have answers.
I still don't know who sent the note. Still don't know what they want. I can't tell if this connects to Drazen's tightening security, or if it's about Silas, or if it's something else entirely.
All I have are fragments—Silas's too-clean identity, nervous chatter on encrypted forums, dead associates and missing players in Drazen's network.
I close the laptop and finish my coffee, staring out the window at the street beyond.
None of it connects cleanly. But all of it feels like pieces of the same puzzle.
I just don't have enough of them yet to see the picture.
I pull out my phone and check for messages.
Still nothing from Silas.
I text Kev: Anything yet?
His response: Quiet so far. One guy lingered near the service entrance for a few minutes around noon, but moved on. Could be nothing. I'll keep watching.
Keep me posted.
Will do.
I pocket the phone, gather my things, and leave the coffee shop.
For now, I keep moving. Keep watching.
And wait for the next piece to fall.
My phone buzzes as I'm halfway back to my apartment.
A text from an unknown number, but I recognize the pattern. Drazen's rotating contact system.
Tonight. 9 PM. Usual place.
