Page 148 of Fractured Allegiance
Marrow knew where she lived.
Which means he got past the cams.
Which means he’s Bureau.
Or worse: was.
I reach the pier, the dockyard still smelling like rusted chain and last week’s smuggled rot.
I scan the containers, the workers loading pallets, the men smoking in clusters near the water's edge.
Then I see him.
Leaning against a shipping container, cigarette burning between his fingers. Older than the surveillance photo Tyler sent—thinner, more worn down. But it's him.
The same posture. The same container setup. The same look of a man who's spent too many years on the wrong side of too many deals.
Jaime Soltero.
Mid-level facilitator from Marrow's last operation. The guy who moved goods, arranged meetings, kept his mouth shut and stayed off the radar.
I step up behind him, close enough to kill.
He senses me too late.
I slam him against the wall. Elbow pressed to his throat. His head cracks back and his cigarette flies.
“Soltero,” I say, not raising my voice. “We’re going to play a game.”
“Jesus—”
“Wrong answer.”
I twist his wrist until something pops. He grits out a whimper but doesn’t scream.
“Try again,” I say. “Where’s Marrow?”
“I—I don’t—he’s dead—”
I drive his shoulder into the rusted wall behind him. Paint flakes down like dandruff.
“You want to lie to me,” I mutter, “you better lie better.”
His breath catches. Then he wheezes: “Vasco… Vasco still gets his prints. That’s all I know. From that west-side salvage place—”
I grip his finger, the one with the busted knuckle.
Snap.
He screams.
“Now you’re bleeding,” I say. “And the next time I see you, you better have something worth that pain.”
I drop him.
He folds like a scared thing.
I’m already gone before he remembers to cry for help.
