Chapter 20: Parallel Paths
[NEW TARGET ASSIGNED]
[VICTOR MARSH]
[SPECIES: HUNDJÄGER]
[CLASSIFICATION: CLASS C THREAT]
[CRIME: HUMAN TRAFFICKING — WESEN VICTIMS, ORGANIZED NETWORK]
[AFFILIATION: VERRAT (CONFIRMED)]
[LOCATION: PORTLAND WATERFRONT DISTRICT]
[VALIDATION STATUS: CONFIRMED EVIL — VALID TARGET]
[ADVISORY: TARGET HAS ORGANIZATIONAL BACKING. RECOMMEND THOROUGH RECONNAISSANCE BEFORE ENGAGEMENT.]
Cole read the notification three times, committing every detail to memory.
Hundjäger. The Wesen equivalent of attack dogs—loyal, vicious, and bred for violence. They served as enforcers for various factions, most commonly the Verrat, the secret police arm of the Royal families.
First the Skalenzahne, a solo predator. Then Volk, a criminal boss with local connections. Now Marsh, someone with international backing.
The escalation was deliberate. The system was training him, pushing him toward harder targets as his abilities developed. Each hunt was a lesson. Each absorption made the next one more achievable.
And each one takes me further from human.
His humanity sat at 91%—a number that meant nothing except as a measure of how much remained before he became something else entirely. The Skalenzahne had cost him 3%. The Blutbad had cost another 6%. Marsh would cost more.
Worth it.
He pushed away from his desk and started planning.
The first three days were reconnaissance.
Cole rented a storage unit near Terminal 6 with cash and a fake name, establishing a forward operating position within walking distance of Marsh's warehouse. From there, he could monitor the facility without returning to his apartment between surveillance sessions.
The operation was larger than he'd expected.
Marsh employed at least twelve people—eight confirmed Wesen, four humans who probably didn't know what they were working for. The warehouse received shipments twice weekly, always at night, always with heavy security. Container ships from overseas brought "cargo" that never appeared on any manifest.
The victims were Wesen, mostly young, mostly female. Cole watched them being unloaded through binoculars that cost more than his first car, cataloguing faces he couldn't help and trying not to think about where they were going.
Human trafficking. The oldest crime in the world, updated for supernatural customers.
The Verrat connection complicated everything. Two operatives visited on day two—men in dark suits with military bearing and the cold eyes of professional killers. They inspected the operation, spoke briefly with Marsh, and left without incident.
[VERRAT OPERATIVES IDENTIFIED. NOT CURRENTLY VALID TARGETS. ENGAGING WOULD ALERT NETWORK TO YOUR PRESENCE.]
So I can't kill them. Yet.
But he could watch. Learn. Prepare.
Marsh himself was a careful man. He rarely left the warehouse, and when he did, he traveled with at least two guards. His personal quarters were on the second floor, accessible only through a stairway that passed multiple security checkpoints.
Different approach needed. Volk was arrogant—he went to his victims. Marsh brings victims to him.
The solution came on day three.
Cole observed the shift change at 6 AM, watching guards rotate positions with practiced efficiency. During the transition, there was a ninety-second window when the loading dock was unmanned. Ninety seconds wasn't long enough to infiltrate, but it was long enough to plant something.
Accelerant. Camera. Tracker. Options.
He started assembling what he'd need.
Between surveillance sessions, Cole continued his Adalind research.
He told himself it was professional interest. She was connected to Renard, who was watching him. Understanding her operations meant understanding his potential enemies.
The lies were almost convincing.
Her schedule followed a predictable pattern: office by 8:30, lunch at noon (usually at her desk, occasionally at a café near the courthouse), meetings in the afternoon, home by 7 unless she had client events. She met with Renard's people twice during Cole's observation period—brief conversations in public spaces, professional and unremarkable to anyone who didn't know what to look for.
She didn't seem to notice him.
Why would she? I'm just another face in the city. She has no reason to pay attention.
But he kept watching anyway, filing away details that had nothing to do with operational security. The way she tapped her phone against her thigh when impatient. The subtle wince when someone ordered cheap wine. The genuine smile she reserved for the elderly security guard at her building's entrance.
She's not a monster. Not yet.
The thought was dangerous. Adalind Schade would become a monster—her future actions were written in Cole's memory, unavoidable and unforgivable. But right now, in November 2011, she was just a woman working for bad people because that's where ambition had led her.
Does that make her redeemable? Or does it make her more dangerous because she hasn't committed to the darkness yet?
Cole didn't have an answer. He wasn't sure he wanted one.
Nick Burkhardt made the news on November 5th.
DETECTIVE CREDITED WITH SOLVING 'IMPOSSIBLE' CASE
The article detailed Nick's work on what the papers called the "Forest Park Murders"—a serial killer who'd terrorized hikers for months before being brought to justice through "brilliant detective work and unorthodox methods."
Cole read between the lines and saw the truth. Nick had caught the Postman, his first Blutbad kill, and the police were spinning the story to explain evidence that didn't make sense in human terms.
His first steps on the path. Soon he'll meet Adalind for the first time. Soon everything will change.
Cole drove past the precinct on his way back from surveillance and saw Nick talking with Monroe outside. The Grimm looked different than the last time Cole had observed him—more confident, more settled in his new reality. The weight of his heritage was still visible, but it wasn't crushing him anymore.
He's adapting. Good.
Nick would need to adapt faster. The threats coming his way would make the Postman look like a warm-up exercise.
And somewhere in that future, I'll have to decide whether to help him or stay invisible.
The decision felt very far away. Cole had more immediate concerns.
The gym became part of his routine.
Mira Chen's Thursday class was everything she'd promised—advanced techniques, serious practitioners, and the kind of controlled violence that helped Cole channel his Blutbad aggression. He joined after his second week at the facility and found himself looking forward to sessions in a way he hadn't expected.
"You're holding back," Mira said after one sparring session.
"What makes you say that?"
"Your speed. Your reactions." She studied him with the calculating attention of someone who'd spent decades reading fighters. "You could end these rounds much faster than you do. Why don't you?"
Cole wiped sweat from his face and considered his answer. "Control is harder than power. Anyone can hit hard. Knowing when not to is more useful."
Mira nodded slowly. "Smart. Most guys with your build just want to prove how tough they are."
"I've got nothing to prove."
"Even smarter." She handed him a water bottle. "Same time next week?"
"I'll be here."
The interaction was human. Normal. The kind of relationship that existed entirely outside the supernatural world Cole was building for himself.
Hold onto these. They're what keep you from becoming like Volk.
He drove home with sore muscles and a clearer head, ready to finalize plans for Marsh.
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