Frank felt the familiar cold settle in his stomach — the feeling he'd gotten in Kandahar, in Bogota, in every place where the rot went deeper than the map showed.
"How much?"
"Two, three million a shipment. Twice a week." Eddie's hands shook. "A year, Mr. Delaney. Do the math."
Frank did the math. It made him sick.
"Why are you telling me?"
Eddie's eyes filled. "My nephew. Sixteen. OD'd last spring. I didn't know — I swear I didn't know what was in the crates, not at first. By the time I figured it out — " He stopped. "I'm in too deep to get out. But I can help you get in."
Frank studied him — the shaking hands, the wet eyes, the twenty years on the ramps. He'd known a hundred Eddies. Good men in bad systems, looking for one clean thing to do.
"Tuesday," Frank said. "I need to know exactly which truck, which crates, which flight they connect to. Can you do that?"
Eddie nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." He stood. "Mr. Delaney? The video — the torn ticket. That took guts."
"It took a question," Frank corrected. "That's all. Just a question."
Eddie left into the night. Frank sat alone with two cold coffees and did the math again — not the money, but the bodies. Fentanyl. Twice a week. A year.
Deadly, Nadia had said. She'd been right. It was all deadly.
He called Cross. "Alan. It's fentanyl. Through the service corridor. A year, maybe more."
Silence. Then: "Frank. This is bigger than an audit now."
"I know." Frank stared out at the highway. "I need a team. Quiet. And I need Nadia Rahman kept safe — she's the only reason we know any of this."
"Done." A pause. "Frank — the torn ticket. The video. You're — "
"Famous. I know." Frank smiled, thin. "My daughter thinks it's hilarious. My grandson will see it someday."
"Is that a problem?"
"It's leverage," Frank said. "Shane Kovacs tore the ticket of a man with a federal clearance, on camera, in front of two million people. When this breaks, that video is exhibit A." He stood. "The kid wanted me to know my place. He's about to learn his."
Nadia didn't go quiet gracefully — she went quiet angrily, which Frank respected.
"You want me to sit on the biggest story of my career while people die," she'd said, when he'd laid it out.
"I want you alive to write it," he'd corrected. "There's a difference."
She'd agreed — barely — and thrown herself into the zoning story with suspicious enthusiasm. Frank checked on her twice. Both times, she was at her desk, surrounded by planning documents, playing the part of a bored local reporter.
Good, he thought. Boring is armor.
But Eddie was the real worry. The handler was fraying — Frank could see it in the truck stop meetings, the shaking hands, the glances at the door.
"He's going to break," Ruth said, after the Sunday meeting. "Or run."
"Or both," Frank agreed. "We need to get him out. After Tuesday."
"If there's an after Tuesday."
Frank looked at her — at the sixteen months of notes, the year of knowing. "There will be. I've done this before, Ruth. The night before is always the worst. The waiting." He paused. "How are you holding up?"
She laughed — a short, sharp sound. "I'm terrified. I'm furious. I'm — " She stopped. "I'm ready. Is that crazy?"
"That's the job." Frank put a hand on her shoulder. "Fear is just the admission price. You pay it, and you go."
"Who taught you that?"
"My wife." He smiled. "She taught me everything worth knowing. Including when to listen."
Ruth nodded slowly. Then: "Frank. If something happens Tuesday — "
"Nothing's happening." But he squeezed her shoulder. "But if it does — the USB. There's a copy with my lawyer. Everything's on it."
She stared at him. "You've got a lawyer?"
"Everyone should have a lawyer, Ruth. And a will. And paper boarding passes." He grinned. "Margaret's rules."
They sat in the parking garage, in the dark, two people the system had failed, about to do the system's job.
"Tuesday," Ruth said.
"Tuesday," Frank agreed.
Above them, a plane took off — the roar building, fading, gone. Somewhere on it, passengers slept, oblivious. Frank envied them, briefly. Then he remembered the crates, the pills, the twelve cities.
Oblivious is a luxury, he thought. And it's about to get more expensive.
Chapter 8 — Nadia
Nadia Rahman had been chasing Aegis Secure for six months, and she'd gotten exactly nowhere — until a sixty-two-year-old in flannel got his ticket torn on camera and blew the whole thing open.
She met Frank at the diner again — same booth, colder coffee — with a folder that made Frank's eyebrows rise.
"Six months of work," she said. "Shell companies. The 'Meridian Consulting' account Ruth mentioned — it feeds into a second shell, then a third. The money ends up — " She slid a page across. "Here. A private airfield in Nevada. Owned by a company owned by a company owned by Victor Hale's brother-in-law."
Frank studied the page. "You've done good work."
"I've done lonely work. Nobody would touch it — Aegis advertises with everyone." She leaned forward. "Mr. Delaney. I want to publish. Now."
"No."
"People are dying. Fentanyl — "
"I know what's in the crates." Frank's voice was quiet. "And if you publish now, the shipments stop, the money moves, and we get nobody. The corridor goes quiet, Hale lawyers up, and a year from now it's happening at another airport." He met her eyes. "Give me three weeks. Let us build the case — the crates, the flights, the money. Then you get the whole thing. Exclusive."
Nadia stared at him. "Three weeks. That's it."
"Three weeks." Frank paused. "And Nadia — you're in danger. The moment they know what you have — "
"I know." She smiled, tight. "My editor thinks I'm covering a zoning dispute. My mother thinks I'm dating someone." She stood. "Three weeks, Mr. Delaney. Then I publish with or without you."
After she left, Frank sat alone and thought about journalists — the brave, reckless, necessary kind. He'd worked with them before, in war zones. They were like EOD techs: someone had to walk toward the bomb.
His phone buzzed. Carrie: Dad!! You're FAMOUS! The video! Mom would have DIED laughing!