His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dense, dark ink lining his forearms. His jaw is set like carved granite, his eyes sharp, analytical, and cold as he taps a key on his sleek black laptop, projecting a detailed financial tree onto the wall monitor.
“Knox isn't funding Route 9 on his own,” Locke says. “A subterranean lab that size costs upwards of twelve million dollars just to break ground. Knox has muscle and he’s got some cash, but he doesn't have that kind of money.”
“So who paid for it?" Hammer asks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"A coastal syndicate," Locke replies. "They run drugs through legitimate shipping lines, with freighters, import licenses, tax fronts. The man in charge of their local operation is named Vane."
I lean a bit so I can better see the mo
