Chapter Text
The body was heavier now.
Dead weight always was —the strange gravity of it, a life that had stopped resisting.
Wukula zipped the black containment bag slowly, methodically, as though he were closing a garment case instead of sealing away a traitor.
Blood had spread further than expected, darkening the concrete in uneven patches across the floor.
Quaritch stood a few steps away, his hand wrapped loosely in a cloth already soaking through. The metallic scent of blood clung stubbornly to the air.
“You acted before he spoke.”
Wukula did not raise his voice.
He didn’t need to.
Observation.
Quaritch flexed his hand once, feeling the torn skin pull sharply across his knuckles.
“He was stalling.”
“He was about to give a name.”
“He was about to say something else.”
Wukula paused, lifting his eyes from the bag.
“Clarify.”
Quaritch’s jaw tightened.
Scoresby’s last look replayed in his mind.
That flick of the eyes.
That pause before the word.
He had seen it before.
Men who knew too much always looked like that — calculating exactly how much damage a single sentence could do before deciding whether to speak it.
“He was fishing,” Quaritch said.
“Fishing for what?”
A beat stretched between them.
“For leverage.”
Wukula studied him for a long moment before returning calmly to the zipper.
“She instructed that he remain alive.”
Quiet.
Measured.
“He is no longer alive.”
“No.”
The zipper closed with a harsh sound that cut through the room.
“He will be disposed of at sea,” Wukula said evenly. “Fire draws attention.”
Practical.
Efficient.
The bag was lifted.
It shifted awkwardly between the men carrying it, the weight settling heavily in their grip.
Final.
“He mentioned inside access,” Wukula added.
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
Quaritch did not answer immediately.
A drop of blood slid slowly from his knuckles.
Hit the floor.
He wiped it away with the heel of his shoe.
“He was a traitor,” Quaritch said. “They invent cracks where there aren’t any.”
Wukula straightened slowly.
“Varang does not tolerate cracks.”
“No.”
“Nor does she tolerate deviation from instruction.”
That sentence hung heavier than the corpse.
Alive.
The word settled firmly in Quaritch’s mind.
He knew exactly why she had wanted Scoresby breathing.
Names unravel networks.
Networks dismantle quietly.
Quiet dismantling preserves control.
Dead men end conversations.
But Scoresby’s pause hadn’t felt like theatre.
It had felt like recognition.
Too sharp.
Too deliberate.
He had looked at Quaritch like he knew something.
And if he knew—
If he even suspected—
That possibility could not be allowed to finish forming into a sentence.
“You reacted.”
Quaritch met Wukula’s gaze.
“He was about to complicate things.”
“For whom?”
Silence settled between them.
The body was carried toward the rear exit. The door opened briefly, and cold night air slipped into the room.
Then it shut again.
Wukula stepped closer.
“She will ask why.”
Quaritch nodded once.
“And what will you tell her?”
Quaritch flexed his hand again. The pain was sharper now.
Impossible to ignore.
“I will tell her he was wasting time.”
Wukula held his gaze for a long moment.
Then inclined his head.
“You will tell her the truth.”
Not a threat.
Expectation.
“We depart in three minutes.”
The body went into the sea.
They did not drop it near the harbour.
Instead, they took one of the smaller service boats and drove out past the last stretch of dock lights, the engine humming low as the shoreline slowly shrank behind them.
The harbour faded into darkness until only a faint band of city glow remained on the horizon.
Far enough.
No traffic.
No witnesses.
Only black water and the slow, steady slap of waves against the hull.
Wukula and another man hauled the bag toward the railing. The weight dragged briefly across the deck before they lifted it together.
For a moment, it hung there.
Suspended.
Then they let go.
The splash was dull.
Heavy.
Gone almost immediately.
The sea closed over it.
Quaritch stood at the rail watching the ripples spread across the dark water until they disappeared completely.
Neither man spoke during the ride back.
The engine hummed steadily as the boat cut through the water, the distant lights of the harbour gradually growing larger again.
By the time they reached the dock, the city had returned.
Muted traffic.
A gull crying somewhere above the water.
Wukula stepped onto the pier first.
His phone rang the moment his shoes touched the wood.
He didn’t check the screen.
“Yes.”
He listened.
Even without hearing the other side, Quaritch recognised the shift in the air.
Varang.
“What information did he give?” she asked.
“Dock routes,” Wukula replied evenly. “Two intermediaries.”
“And the supplier?”
Silence stretched.
“Send Scoresby to the house,” she said. “I will speak to him myself.”
Wukula’s gaze flicked briefly toward the dark water behind them.
“He is unavailable.”
A pause.
Longer this time.
“Explain.”
“He resisted further cooperation,” Wukula said calmly.
Another pause.
“And?”
“He was terminated.”
Nothing came through the line.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Just the quiet that came before it.
“I instructed otherwise.”
“Yes.”
Her voice hardened slightly.
“I had arrangements made. He was to be moved.”
Another beat passed across the line.
“Now that option is gone.”
Wukula remained silent.
Then her voice returned.
Colder.
“Come to the house.”
The line went dead.
The house was already awake when they arrived.
Lights burned softly along the long driveway, illuminating the stone façade and iron gates guarding the property.
Two servants waited near the entrance.
Not guards.
Staff.
One stepped forward to open the door before Wukula even reached it.
Another stood quietly beside the staircase inside the foyer, hands folded, eyes lowered.
The study lights were already on.
Varang stood beside the desk with perfect posture and perfect stillness.
“Report.”
Wukula spoke first.
“Scoresby confirmed diverted shipments and two contacts at the docks.”
“And?”
“He stalled.”
Varang’s gaze shifted slowly to Quaritch.
“And then?”
“He died.”
The room went still.
“You were instructed to keep him alive.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you did not.”
“No.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Why?”
“He was wasting time.”
Varang repeated the words softly.
“Wasting time.”
She stepped closer.
“I gave a simple instruction.”
Alive.
“And yet the fool who disobeyed it stands here while the traitor sinks to the bottom of my harbour.”
Silence pressed through the room.
“You removed the only man who could have given me the name I wanted.”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t going to talk.”
“You did not allow me to decide that.”
Varang moved.
The slap cracked sharply through the room.
Quaritch’s head turned slightly with the force of it.
He did not step back.
Varang lowered her hand slowly.
“You do not rewrite my orders.”
Quiet.
Deadly.
“You disobey once, and you become the problem instead of the solution.”
Then—
The study door flung open.
Footsteps followed.
Unhurried.
A tall boy stepped inside.
School uniform immaculate beneath a dark, tailored jacket. Collar crisp, tie straight. Hair neatly combed, not a strand out of place.
He didn’t hesitate at the threshold.
As if the room already belonged to him.
In one hand, he carried a slim glass plaque.
Best Academic Performance.
“Mother.”
His voice was calm
Even.
“You missed it.”
Quaritch went still.
Close enough to see the careful neatness, the familiar shape of his mouth when he spoke.
He kept his face blank.
Behind the blonde boy, one of the house servants hurried forward, clearly flustered.
“Young master, you mustn’t enter the study while—”
The man stopped when he saw Varang.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said quickly.
Varang didn’t look at him
“Do your job,” Varang said evenly. “If an area is restricted, you prevent entry before he reaches the door.”
The servant paled. “Yes, ma’am. Of course. Apologies.”
Varang’s gaze sharpened a fraction.
“Your concern is unnecessary,” she said. “Leave.”
The servant retreated immediately.
Only then did Varang turn her attention fully to the boy.
“Miles,” she said, voice even. “The study is occupied. You don’t enter when I’m in session.”
“I reminded you,” he said.
“Last week.”
A pause.
“And this morning.”
Miles’ gaze flicked briefly to the plaque before returning to her.
“The school awards.”
Varang stepped closer.
For a moment, the sharpness in her expression eased. Her hands moved automatically—straightening the line of his collar, smoothing the crease along his blazer—like the gesture alone could make up for what she’d missed.
“I was detained,” she said quietly.
“You said you wouldn’t be.”
Varang’s eyes dropped to the plaque again, reading the gold lettering.
A faint, restrained pride crossed her face before it disappeared behind composure.
“I will make it up to you.”
Miles didn’t blink.
“How?”
“Dinner,” Varang replied.
A pause.
“To celebrate properly.”
She considered briefly before adding, almost as if offering a concession, she didn’t give often.
“The restaurant on Alder Street.”
One of the most expensive places in the city.
Private rooms.
Impossible reservations.
Miles’ expression shifted slightly.
Recognition.
“They’ll have space tonight?” he asked.
“They will,” Varang said calmly.
Money—and her name—had a way of solving those problems.
Miles nodded once.
“I'll get ready.”
He turned to leave.
Then glanced toward Quaritch.
Just briefly.
Quaritch didn’t move.
But his attention caught anyway—hooked on the boy’s eyes, too familiar in shape and colour to be a coincidence.
Paz.
The same eyes.
Miles looked away first.
“If we’re celebrating,” he said evenly, “we shouldn’t delay.”
His gaze flicked back once more—cool, assessing.
“Don’t waste my mother’s time.”
Then he walked out.
The door closed softly behind him.
Silence returned to the study.
Varang’s voice cut through it.
“You are fortunate.”
Quaritch looked at her.
“I could have you skinned alive for what you did tonight.”
A pause.
“But my time belongs to my son.”
Her eyes hardened.
“So, consider this a warning.”
Another beat.
“Next time, there will not be one.”
Varang turned and left the room.
The bar was quiet at night.
Not empty.
But quiet enough that conversations stayed low and nobody paid attention to the two men sitting at the far end of the counter.
The kind of place nobody thought to look.
Dim lights.
Cheap whiskey.
No questions.
Quaritch sat with a glass in front of him, the ice already thinning into water.
Across from him sat a broad-shouldered man in a dark jacket, beer in hand.
The man took a slow sip.
“You always were impatient, Quaritch.”
Quaritch snorted.
“Still talking like you’re in charge, Sully?”
Jake Sully leaned back slightly.
“Someone has to.”
A pause.
Then Jake set the bottle down.
“You almost blew six months of work tonight.”
Quaritch didn’t react.
“You mean Scoresby.”
“He could’ve been bought,” Jake said. “Turned. Fed us names.”
Quaritch took the glass and drained it in one go.
“He wasn’t going to give you anything.”
“You didn’t let him try.”
Quaritch set the empty glass down, slow and deliberate.
“I knew what he was doing.”
Jake watched him over the rim of his bottle.
“And what was that?”
“Looking for leverage.”
Jake didn’t look convinced.
Quaritch leaned back slightly.
“He’d started circling my cover,” he said. “Not the shipments. Me.”
Jake’s gaze sharpened.
“That’s paranoia.”
“It’s pattern,” Quaritch replied. “He stalled. Tested. Looked where he shouldn’t. Like he already had a reason to.”
Jake set his bottle down.
“You’re saying someone clocked you.”
“I’m saying someone’s leaking,” Quaritch said evenly. “Because men like Scoresby don’t get brave on instinct. They get brave when they think they’re protected.”
Jake held his stare.
“You don’t have proof.”
Quaritch’s jaw tightened.
“Only a handful of people know about this operation,” he said. “You might want to keep an eye on them.”
Jake didn’t answer.
Quaritch leaned forward slightly.
“I’m not watching six months of undercover fall apart because someone got careless.”
A pause.
“And I’m sure as hell not letting my kid sit at that table any longer than he has to.”
Jake studied him.
“You knew the deal before you went in.”
Quaritch nodded once.
“Yeah.”
“You get us the information,” Jake said. “Routes. Names. Everything she’s built.”
Quaritch finished it.
“And you make sure my son walks out clean when it falls.”
Jake held his gaze.
“That’s the deal.”
Quaritch’s voice dropped.
“You bring the empire down,” he said, “you wipe my record.”
Jake didn’t interrupt.
“No more prison,” Quaritch continued. “No chains waiting on the other side.”
A beat.
“You set me free.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“And I walk out with my boy.”
Jake nodded once.
“That was the agreement.”
Quaritch’s gaze dropped briefly to the glass.
Calling her mother.
The word sat wrong in his head.
That wasn’t hers. It didn’t belong to her at all.
He remembered the way she’d reached for the kid—hands at his collar like he belonged to her.
Jake watched him for a moment.
“You’ll get your boy,” he said.
Quaritch didn’t look up.
Jake lifted his bottle.
“But first,” he added quietly, “we get rid of them.”
Silence settled between them.
Quaritch stared into the glass for a moment.
Then he nodded once.
“Then let’s burn it down.”