Jack knelt down and studied the narrow rubber tire tracks that had been left behind by a forklift turning sharp angles and obviously carrying a heavy load. They could’ve been made ten months ago, or ten hours ago.

About the time Lian was keeping him occupied on the tour earlier today.

Jack tried to imagine stacks of pallets or crates of something he wasn’t supposed to know existed. But what?

He walked around the wide, empty floor, looking for clues. An oil stain, a piece of crumpled packing tape, a cigarette butt.

Nothing.

Whatever was in here yesterday, guarded by a platoon of burly goons without any official identification, was gone now.

Moved in a hurry.

Why?

Where?

Standing here with his metaphorical dick in his hands wasn’t answering any of those questions. But he thought he might know a way to get them.

He pulled out his phone and tapped his Uber app again. If his hunch was right, time was not his friend.

Time to play the Gavin card.

—

Sorry, Jack, I tried,” Gavin said, a rare note of humility in his voice.

Jack couldn’t believe his ears. “I thought you said it would be a piece of cake.”

“I know. I was wrong. The Singapore Police Force cloud server is better protected than I thought it would be. I can keep hammering on my end or even call in a few favors. But we’re talking several hours, maybe days.”

“There isn’t any time.”

“I feel crappy about this.”

Jack wanted to curse. He was frustrated, but it wasn’t Gavin’s fault. He shouldn’t expect the man to pull his bacon out of the fire every time he hit a wall.

His Uber driver pulled up to the curb. “No worries, Gav. Gotta run. I’ll find another way.”

Jack climbed into the Toyota Camry knowing that a long night was ahead of him. He had one other option, and he needed Paul’s help to pull it off. He just hoped the pudgy accountant was up to it.

—

Jack snuck in the back kitchen door the same way he had left, careful to avoid the Dalfan security car out front and eager to enlist Paul in tonight’s clandestine effort. He heard a noise in the living room and headed there.

Paul sat on the couch in the living room, a half-empty bottle of Bushmills on the coffee table in front of him. His eyes were red-rimmed and rheumy. He forced a smile. “Hello, Jack.”

Jack prayed it was the first bottle. Paul won’t be any help tonight. He crossed over and sat down next to him, patting his fat knee. “What’s wrong?”

“Have a drink with me?”

“What’s going on? Seriously. You can tell me.”

Paul sighed. “I really miss her.”

“Your wife.”

“Carmen was the best.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You don’t know me, Jack.” Paul stiffened. “Or anything about me.”