Chapter 21: The Trafficker
The Terminal 6 warehouse sat at the edge of Portland's industrial sprawl, surrounded by chain-link fencing and the kind of aggressive signage that suggested legitimate business with nothing to hide. Cole had spent five nights learning its secrets, and what he'd learned was troubling.
Victor Marsh ran a professional operation.
Cole crouched on the roof of an adjacent building, binoculars pressed to his eyes, cataloguing the evening's activities. Two container trucks had arrived at 9 PM, bringing cargo from a ship that had docked earlier in the day. The shipping manifests claimed machine parts from Eastern Europe. The reality was darker.
Twelve victims this shipment. Eight female, four male. All Wesen—I can feel the Detection Matrix pinging them from here.
They moved in a shuffling line from the trucks to the warehouse's loading dock, heads down, shock collars visible around their necks. Guards flanked the procession, cattle prods ready for anyone who stepped out of line. The efficiency was horrifying—no shouting, no unnecessary cruelty, just the smooth logistics of human misery processed at industrial scale.
[ADVISORY: TARGET OPERATION INCLUDES APPROXIMATELY 15 PERSONNEL ON SITE. RECOMMENDED APPROACH: ISOLATE TARGET BEFORE ENGAGEMENT.]
Fifteen people. Eight confirmed Wesen. At least three Hundjäger besides Marsh himself.
Direct assault was suicide. Even with his enhanced abilities, Cole couldn't fight through that many opponents and still have energy left for the absorption. He needed to be smarter.
Find the pattern. Find the weakness. Find the moment.
He'd been studying Marsh's personal habits for three days now. The Hundjäger was cautious but not paranoid—he left the warehouse twice daily, once for coffee at a café near the waterfront and once for dinner at a restaurant in the Pearl District. Both trips involved security, but the dinner outings showed more vulnerability.
Marsh liked his routine. He sat at the same table, ordered the same meal, and spent exactly forty-five minutes eating before returning to work. His guards waited outside—too obvious to accompany him into an upscale establishment, but close enough to respond to trouble.
The restaurant is public. Too many witnesses.
But there was a window during the return trip.
Marsh walked from the restaurant to his car—a black Mercedes parked in a nearby garage. The walk took four minutes through a commercial district that emptied after dark. His guards followed at a distance, maintaining visual contact but not close enough to intervene instantly.
Four minutes. Enough time to approach, eliminate, and disappear if I time it right.
Cole lowered the binoculars and checked his watch. 11:47 PM. Marsh had returned from dinner two hours ago and wouldn't leave again until morning. Tomorrow night would be the window.
Assuming nothing changes. Assuming the Verrat doesn't decide to visit again. Assuming his pattern holds.
Assumptions got people killed. Cole had learned that lesson with the Skalenzahne, when his carefully planned ambush had nearly resulted in his own death. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
The diner on Marine Drive served coffee that could strip paint and pie that predated the Reagan administration. Cole sat in a booth by the window, nursing a cup and processing what he'd observed.
Marsh is careful. He has resources. His operation has been running long enough to develop real security protocols.
The Verrat connection was the biggest complication. If Cole killed Marsh, the organization would investigate. They had the resources to dig deep, to find patterns, to identify threats. One dead Hundjäger might be written off as local trouble. One dead Hundjäger after a dead Blutbad and a dead Skalenzahne might draw attention Cole couldn't afford.
So make it look like something else.
The thought crystallized into a plan.
Volk's death had been chaos—fire, destruction, the kind of theatrical violence that could be blamed on rival criminal enterprises. But Marsh operated differently. His organization valued discretion. A noisy death would trigger investigation.
Quiet, then. Make it look like he ran. Or better—make it look like someone from within his own organization took him out.
The Verrat were paranoid about internal betrayal. If Marsh died in a way that suggested treachery from his own people, they'd turn their investigation inward instead of outward. They'd spend months chasing shadows while Cole consolidated his gains.
Frame it as a coup attempt. Someone wanted Marsh's position. Someone made a move.
The plan required additional research—learning which of Marsh's subordinates had ambition, which had grievances, which could plausibly be positioned as the killer. But it was feasible.
Tomorrow. Scout the personnel. Find the fall guy.
Cole left cash on the table and walked to his car. The night air carried the salt smell of the river, mixed with diesel and decay from the industrial facilities nearby. Somewhere in the darkness, people were being processed like livestock, their freedom traded for currency Cole couldn't comprehend.
This is what the power is for.
The Skalenzahne's emotional dampening helped. He could look at suffering without being paralyzed by it, could calculate responses without drowning in empathy. The Blutbad's aggression provided motivation—not rage exactly, but a cold determination to hunt and eliminate threats.
I'm becoming something useful. Something that can actually change things.
Whether that something was still human remained to be seen.
November 9th. Preparation day.
Cole spent the morning reviewing personnel files he'd compiled through observation and discrete inquiries. Marsh's operation employed several people with the potential to serve as scapegoats.
First candidate: Erik Hoffman, Hundjäger, second-in-command. Ambitious and resentful of Marsh's leadership style. Had clashed with the boss over operational decisions multiple times. Perfect motivation, but too obvious—the Verrat would expect Hoffman to be the first suspect.
Second candidate: Maria Santos, human, logistics coordinator. Had been skimming money from shipments for months, according to the accounting discrepancies Cole had spotted. Marsh probably didn't know, but the Verrat might. Financial betrayal could explain why she'd arranged for him to die.
Third candidate: Dmitri Volkov, Schakal, recently transferred from a European operation. Unknown loyalties, foreign connections, potential ties to factions that competed with the Verrat. A planted suspicion about his true allegiances could spin the investigation in directions that had nothing to do with Cole.
Volkov. He's the best choice.
The Schakal had arrived three weeks ago, allegedly to help Marsh expand operations. But his presence also meant he had access and opportunity without established loyalty. If Cole could make the death look like Volkov's work—or at least plant enough doubt—the Verrat's investigation would focus on their own organizational paranoia instead of external threats.
I need something that points to him. Evidence that survives the death.
Cole started planning the details.
The surveillance position on the adjacent roof had become familiar. Cole lay prone on the cold concrete, binoculars tracking Marsh's movements through the warehouse below.
The Hundjäger was inspecting tonight's shipment personally—a sign of either diligence or distrust. He moved through the processing area with the confident stride of someone who owned everything he surveyed, stopping occasionally to examine merchandise or bark orders at subordinates.
He enjoys this. The power, the control, the fear in their eyes.
Cole had seen that look before. Volk had worn it while watching Wesen tear each other apart for entertainment. The Skalenzahne had worn it while drowning homeless people in the Willamette. Predators who'd forgotten they could be prey.
Tomorrow he learns the lesson.
The plan was set. Marsh would take his usual dinner at the Pearl District restaurant. Cole would intercept him during the walk to his car, using the speed advantage from his Blutbad abilities to close distance before the guards could react. One quick strike—enhanced strength to the throat, crushing the windpipe before Marsh could woge and fight back.
Then the framing.
Cole had prepared evidence to plant: a burner phone with messages suggesting Volkov had been coordinating with outside parties, a small amount of cash skimmed from the operation's accounts (retrieved through methods Cole preferred not to examine too closely), and a handwritten note in Volkov's distinctive script discussing "removing obstacles."
The Verrat will find a traitor. They'll never look for a predator.
It was manipulation on a level Cole hadn't attempted before. With the Skalenzahne and Volk, he'd simply killed and covered his tracks. This required weaving a narrative, controlling information, shaping perceptions.
This is what a defense attorney does. Just with higher stakes.
The thought amused him in a dark way. He'd spent years constructing narratives for juries, presenting evidence in ways that supported his clients' innocence. Now he was doing the same thing, except the case was murder and the jury was an international conspiracy.
Adapt or die. The world doesn't care about method, only results.
Cole drove past Adalind's apartment building on his way home.
He told himself it was coincidence—the route happened to pass through the Pearl District. But coincidence didn't explain why he slowed down, why he noted the lights in her windows, why he wondered what she was doing at 11 PM on a Tuesday night.
Stop it. Focus on Marsh. She's not relevant to anything you're planning.
But she was relevant, whether he liked it or not. Adalind worked for Renard. Renard was watching Cole. Any move that drew Renard's attention could draw Adalind's as well.
And if she looks closely, what will she see?
A PI with unusual abilities. A man who'd been near two major Wesen deaths. Someone who didn't fit any category she understood.
Let her look. There's nothing to find.
The lie felt comfortable, which made it dangerous. Cole was building a web of deceptions that grew more complex with every hunt. Eventually, the strands would cross. Eventually, someone would notice patterns.
Not tonight. Tonight is for preparation.
He parked in his building's garage and took the stairs to his apartment, using the climb to burn off restless energy. The Blutbad instincts wanted to hunt now—waiting felt like weakness, like prey behavior instead of predator behavior.
Control it. Use it. Don't let it use you.
Tomorrow would bring the hunt. Tonight required patience.
Cole entered his apartment and started reviewing the plan one final time. Every detail mattered. Every contingency had to be considered. Marsh was more dangerous than Volk had been, and the consequences of failure were worse.
But the reward is worth it.
A Hundjäger's abilities would complement what he already had. Enhanced tracking instincts. Improved combat reflexes. The predatory focus that made the species such effective enforcers.
Three absorptions. Then four. Then more. Building toward something.
He didn't know what that something was yet. The system hadn't revealed its endgame. But Cole could feel the trajectory—power accumulating, humanity eroding, the distance between man and monster shrinking with each kill.
Is this what I want?
The question had no answer. Maybe it didn't need one. He was past the point of choosing—the first kill had committed him, and everything since had been consequences.
Tomorrow, I kill again. And the day after, I deal with whatever comes next.
Cole turned off the lights and lay in darkness, listening to the city's heartbeat with ears that could track individual cars three blocks away.
Somewhere in that city, Marsh was preparing for a normal day.
He had no idea it would be his last.
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