Time passed.
Roberto spoke.
Not fluently—nothing close. His jaw barely moved. His words came slow and strained, tongue and breath doing the work his ruined teeth couldn't. Each syllable seemed pulled from the throat with caution, lips curling as if any wrong movement might trigger a new wave of pain.
He didn't dare let his teeth meet.
Gary didn't interrupt. Neither did Don.
They just listened.
Roberto started with buildings.
Old warehouses on the outskirts of Santos—one near the canal, two more near the southern shipping yards. Places he claimed were used to "move things" during off-hours. Nothing ever stayed long. He wasn't sure what was moved—drugs, android parts, contraband maybe—but he'd been stationed near one long enough to assume the place mattered.
Another location: an apartment complex downtown.
High-rise. Corporate front.
According to him, half the units were never occupied, the upper floors rarely lit, and yet deliveries came daily.
