Toussaint’s café hadn’t changed.

  Same narrow counter. Same chipped mug that pretended to be ceramic but tasted faintly of metal. Same barista who never asked his name and never got his order wrong.

  He was halfway through his second cup when the comm vibrated against his ribs.

  He didn’t answer it right away. He let the vibration finish its cycle, then reached into his jacket and pressed the stud.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  Ives didn’t bother with preamble.

  “There’s an item in transit,” she said. “Flagged late.”

  Toussaint stared into his coffee. The surface trembled faintly from passing traffic outside.

  “Transit where?” he asked.

  “Rail,” Ives replied. “Cargo. Domestic line. It’s part of an estate liquidation.”

  That got his attention.

  Estate sales weren’t supposed to move fast. They were meant to be slow, methodical, bored. Lawyers. Appraisers. Mistakes that took weeks to surface.

  “How miscategorized?” Toussaint asked.

  “Personal effects,” Ives said. “Insured higher than the rest. Handwritten addendum. No one knows why.”

  He took a sip. It burned going down.

  “And now someone noticed.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?” he asked.

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  There was a pause. Not long. Just enough.

  “More than one,” Ives said. “Enough that I wouldn’t recommend delay.”

  Toussaint set the mug down and stood.

  The train smelled like recycled air and damp coats. Toussaint boarded without hurry, ticket scanned, jacket zipped, posture unremarkable.

  He didn’t look for the item yet. He watched people first.

  That was habit.

  A man in dark clothing stood near the connecting doors between cars, sunglasses on despite the low light. Tattoos crept up his neck and disappeared beneath his collar. He talked easily to a conductor who didn’t seem to know why the conversation made him uncomfortable.

  Too comfortable, Toussaint thought.

  Further down, another man leaned against a rail, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his thigh. His suit was too sharp for public transit. His presence felt tight, like something coiled.

  Toussaint passed them both without slowing.

  The cargo access panel opened with minimal resistance. Someone had replaced the lock recently. Poorly.

  Inside, the compartment was stacked with sealed cases, all uniform except for one.

  That one had more tape. More documentation. A red tag tied to its handle like an afterthought.

  Toussaint stepped closer.

  He didn’t touch it.

  Footsteps sounded behind him.

  He moved without panic, sliding behind a support column just as another figure entered the compartment.

  The man didn’t sneak.

  He walked in like he belonged there, glanced around once, then went straight to the reinforced case.

  No hesitation.

  That was the tell.

  The case was lifted and carried out without ceremony.

  Toussaint stayed where he was.

  A moment later, voices passed outside the compartment. The man with the case emerged into the corridor and nearly collided with the one in the suit.

  The suited man’s gaze dropped to the case.

  Then lifted.

  Later, when Toussaint exited the cargo area empty-handed, the suited man noticed him too.

  The calculation didn’t take long.

  The man with the case disembarked at the next station.

  Toussaint followed.

  The platform was quiet. Too quiet for a transfer hub. The man stepped off the train, case in hand, already moving toward the exit.

  Toussaint kept his distance.

  Behind them, somewhere deeper in the train, the air tightened.

  Heat bloomed where it didn’t belong.

  Metal screamed.

  Something ruptured in the cargo section—

  —and the boom hit.