"How many men," Dom asked, jogging to keep pace with Grant across the parking lot."I don't know yet," Grant said. "Doesn't matter.""It matters plenty if it's fifteen against four.""It matters less than you think." Grant reached the truck and climbed in. "A hundred against one only works if the one doesn't know the warehouse better than they do. I've read every shipment that's ever moved through fourteen. I know where the blind spots are. Marchetti's men don't."Reggie swung into the passenger seat, a tire iron across his lap he hadn't bothered to hide. "I called six guys. Three are already headed there. Rest couldn't make it in time.""Three's enough," Grant said. "We're not storming the place. We're outthinking it."Piper's voice came through the phone on speaker, tight with fear she was trying not to let show. "Tasha's not answering. Neither is Brannigan.""Keep trying both," Grant said. "If either calls back, patch them straight to me."The drive to the docks took eleven minutes

They took Kessler back to the warehouse office, not the police, not anywhere official, because Grant had learned in the last week exactly how far Marchetti's reach extended into anywhere official. Walter sat in the corner with a bag of ice pressed to his eyebrow, watching his son interrogate a man twice his age with an unnerving, patient calm.Kessler talked. Not because Grant had actually meant the threat, though Kessler clearly hadn't been willing to bet his life on that, but because four days of watching a warehouse kid outmaneuver every move Marchetti's organization made had done something to the man's confidence that no amount of cologne could cover up."Cross doesn't deal with families directly," Kessler said, sitting now, hands no longer bound but his whole posture folded in on itself. "She's insulated. Three layers between her and anything that could touch her. Marchetti's the muscle layer. There's a lawyer layer above him, guy named Foster, handles the shell companies. Above

Getting into a law firm after hours should have been harder than it was. Grant learned that within the first ten minutes of Tasha walking him through the service entrance she still had access to from her old job, a keycard that hadn't been deactivated because nobody at Foster & Whitlock Legal had bothered to update their security since the partner who'd hired Tasha retired.The building smelled like carpet cleaner and expensive furniture nobody actually sat on after six in the evening. Tasha moved through it like she still worked there, quick and certain, while Grant stayed a half step behind her, counting cameras out of habit."Two in the lobby, one in this hallway," he said quietly. "Any in Foster's office itself?""None. Lawyers don't like recording their own privilege," Tasha said. "That's exactly why he keeps physical files instead of digital ones. Doesn't trust servers he doesn't personally own.""You're sure this is worth the risk," Grant said,

"You want to steal from a mob boss," Dom said, "as a strategy.""I want to take back what he already stole," Grant said. "There's a difference."They stood in the warehouse office at six in the morning, a whiteboard between them covered in Grant's handwriting, arrows connecting shipping routes to dates to dollar amounts. Piper sat cross-legged on the desk, coffee in hand, reading over the plan for the third time."Ironbrook's got a shipment coming through the east dock Thursday," Grant said. "Textiles, on paper. Cash, underneath it. Enough to fund whatever Cross needs for the gala.""And you want to redirect it.""I want to redirect it somewhere it becomes very hard for Marchetti to explain to Cross," Grant said."And how exactly do we redirect a mob shipment without a small army?" Dom asked."We don't need an army," Grant said. "We need someone who already controls the ground it has to pass through."Piper looked up. "There's

"Say the name again," Grant said."I don't have one," Tasha said, laptop open on the warehouse desk, the whole crew crowded around her in a way that made the small office feel considerably smaller than usual. "Just a title. Regional Director. No first name, no last name, no company listed on the calendar entry itself.""Regional director of what?" Dom asked."That's the problem," Tasha said. "The calendar entry doesn't say. It's the only meeting on Cross's entire private schedule that doesn't have a company name attached to it anywhere.""Could it just be a personal meeting?" Dom asked. "Family, doctor, something that has nothing to do with any of this?""Cross doesn't take personal meetings at a leased conference suite with private security on the door," Tasha said. "I checked the venue booking. Whoever this is, they're important enough that she's not even letting her own staff know who they are."Grant stared at the screen, at the blank sp