The city breathed a sigh of relief after Moretti's capture, but Max Hastings knew better than to let his guard down. The beast was wounded, not dead. As dawn painted the sky with a sickly orange hue, he sat in his office, nursing a glass of bourbon. The liquid swirled, catching the light like the amber of a dying flame.
Victoria Thorne was already at her desk, poring over the latest intel. The file on the smuggling ring lay open, its contents strewn about in a chaotic symphony of papers and photographs.
"Max," Victoria's voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, "you need to see this."
He moved to her side, leaning over to peer at the grainy surveillance photos. Ships docked at odd hours, crates being unloaded by men with shadowed faces.
"Looks like they're using the old warehouses by the harbor," she continued, tapping a map with precise fingers. "These operations are too big to be a coincidence. Someone's taking advantage of the power vacuum."
