He stood in the mouth of the storm, a long black overcoat snapping in the wind like a tattered flag. Rain sheeted off him in waves, his silhouette stark against the chaos behind. Flanking him were two men in matching coats, shadows cast by lightning that lit the loading bay in fits and starts.

  Kyle froze.

  There, framed by the wrath of the sky and the low growl of the city, Viktor Romanov stepped into the warehouse—calm, powerful, merciless. In that moment, Kyle didn’t know which he feared more: the hurricane or the man walking through it like a force of nature.

  Viktor approached with deliberate steps, the storm closing behind him like a drawn curtain. Two of his henchmen followed—Mikey and Davos, both familiar. Mikey carried a rucksack, which he tossed across the room without a word. Tucker caught it cleanly. Kyle stood awkwardly, like a schoolboy waiting to be introduced to royalty.

  Tucker cleared his throat. “Viktor, this is Kyle. Our computer guy. He’s a whiz.”

  Viktor’s gaze slid over Kyle as if he were a smudge on glass. Still, he extended a hand and shook Kyle’s briefly—formally, without warmth—before turning back to Tucker.

  “The jewels and other loot Mikal had,” Viktor said, nodding toward the rucksack. “What wasn’t sold or melted down is in there. Mostly gear from the last job. I haven’t had time to deal with it. Why do you need it?”

  His eyes locked on Tucker’s, sharp and unrelenting.

  Tucker kept his tone steady. “We found a ledger—an itemised list of everything Mikal stole. We just want to cross-check it, make sure the person who controlled the robot didn’t take anything else. If they only grabbed a few items—stuff that means something to the operator, like sentimental jewellery—it might give us a clue about who’s behind it. We know for sure that one of the bots killed him. We recovered the internal footage. Some of it was corrupted, but we got enough.”

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  Viktor didn’t blink. “The robots didn’t take anything.”

  Tucker raised an eyebrow. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I had a hidden camera in the building.” Viktor snapped his fingers. “Davos. USB.”

  Davos stepped forward, reaching into the folds of his long, rain-darkened Crombie coat. He retrieved a USB stick and handed it to Tucker without a word.

  “You could’ve given us this earlier,” Tucker said, trying not to sound accusatory. He knew better than to push too hard. Viktor was still volatile—still grieving.

  “You have it now, don’t you?” Viktor replied flatly.

  A beat of silence. Then Viktor's tone sharpened. “Any leads? Suspects?”

  “Not yet,” Tucker admitted, offering a faint, rehearsed smile. “But we’ll have something soon.”

  “You have until next week. Can you manage that?”

  “Yeah... yeah, sure. Next week we’ll have suspects. Just give us a bit more time to dig.”

  Viktor gave a single nod. Without another word, he turned and walked back into the storm. The rain swallowed him whole, his coat flaring like the wings of a wraith vanishing into the darkness—a ghost with unfinished business, vowing silently to return.