His six-month-old nephew had vanished, but when Gabriel found him alive in a safe room, the baby was sleeping in the arms of a badly injured woman who knew far too much.

Vincent Caro arrived at the brownstone at 2:14 a.m.

wearing a pressed shirt and a cooperative expression that Gabriel had seen on men before.

It was the expression of someone who had already decided what story he was telling and had rehearsed it on the drive over.

Gabriel was waiting in the front room.

Leo had been handed to the physician, who had finally been permitted inside.

Mia had not been moved.

The physician was treating her in the safe room with the door open, and Gabriel had positioned himself where he could see both the hallway and the front entrance.

Caro stepped in, glanced around, and smiled.

"Boss.

Hell of a night.

How's Leo?"

"Sit down, Vincent."

Something moved across Caro's face — too fast, almost invisible.

He sat.

"The convoy modification order," Gabriel said.

"Walk me through it."

"I heard about the switch.

I've been trying to figure out who—"

"You approved the base transport document."

"I approve fifty transport documents a week.

That's my job."

"At 9:31 tonight, someone used a terminal in your office to pull the full personnel list for the audit convoy."

Caro's hands were on his knees.

They didn't move.

"My office is accessible to four people on night rotation.

Any one of them could have—"

"The terminal requires a personal login."

Silence.

"Vincent."

"Gabriel, I want to be very clear that I had nothing to do with what happened to Leo—"

"I didn't ask you about Leo." Gabriel leaned forward slightly.

"I asked you about the terminal query at 9:31.

Answer that question."

Caro's cooperative expression was gone.

What replaced it was something more careful, more calculating — the face underneath the face.

"I want to speak to an attorney."

"You're not under arrest.

You're in my house."

"Then I'd like to leave."

"You can leave when I understand why my clearance code is on a document that put an innocent woman in a van with my nephew tonight."

Caro stood up.

Marco stepped into the doorway behind him without being asked.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

Caro sat back down.

"I didn't forge your signature," he said.

"I want that on record."

"There is no record.

This is a conversation."

"Sterling's people approached me four months ago." The words came out flat, stripped of the cooperative warmth.

"They knew things about my personal finances.

Debts.

They said all they needed was scheduling information.

Convoy routes.

Timing windows.

They said nobody would get hurt."

Gabriel said nothing.

"They told me it was about the shipping contracts.

That they just wanted to pressure you into negotiating.

I didn't know they were going to take Leo.

I swear to you I did not know that."

"But you pulled the personnel list."

"They asked me to confirm who was on the transport.

That's all I did."

"And the modification order?

The one with my signature?"

Caro shook his head.

"That wasn't me.

I gave them the window.

Whatever they did with it after — the forged order, the signature — that was Sterling's people.

I didn't touch your clearance code."

Gabriel studied him for a long moment.

Caro was telling a partial truth.

Gabriel had been listening to partial truths long enough to feel the shape of them — the place where the true part ended and the convenient part began.

"Who was your contact at Sterling's organization?"

Caro hesitated.

"A name, Vincent."

"A man called Reeves.

I only ever met him twice.

He used a burner."

"What does he look like?"

Caro described him.

Gabriel filed it without expression.

"You're going to write down everything," Gabriel said.

"Every contact, every conversation, every piece of information you passed.

Dates, times, locations.