CASSIAN
The office smelled of expensive leather, Cyan's floral cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of the heavy-duty safes built into the walls. We had been back from lunch for nearly two hours, the Spanish sun beginning to dip low enough to cast long, skeletal shadows across the velvet furniture.
Cyan was surprisingly efficient when he wasn't trying to climb me like a tree. He'd laid out a map of the Seville docks, marking three specific warehouses that didn't appear on any official manifest.
"The Lorenzo family doesn't use the main terminals anymore," Cyan said, his voice dropping the theatrical lilt. He tapped a manicured finger on a warehouse near the Guadalquivir River. "They use the 'Ghost Docks.' My contact in the harbor master's office says a shipment is due in forty-eight hours. High-end textiles on the surface. Something much heavier underneath."
I leaned back, memorizing the coordinates. "Guns? Or the product?"
