I remember this morning — the morning I land in a new country with nothing but a suitcase

The rain had turned into a driving, horizontal sleet by the time the blue-and-white local transit bus hissed to a halt at the edge of the Dyce industrial estate.

The sky was the color of a bruised plum, hanging low over the rolling gorse and dark peat bogs of Aberdeenshire. The North Sea was an invisible, roaring presence two miles to the east, throwing a freezing, salt-heavy gale against the windshield wipers that sounded like handfuls of gravel being flung against the glass.

I stepped off the bottom step of the bus into three inches of muddy slush, my surplus boots sinking into the gravel shoulder.

Across the deserted two-lane access road, parked beneath the skeletal silhouette of a decommissioned electrical substation, was the white Ford Transit van.

Its diesel engine was idling with a rough, clattering rattle that blew gray exhaust into the freezing mist. The windows were tinted dark, beaded with rain, but through the sweep of the single functional wiper blade on the driver's side, I could see two figures sitting in the cab.

In the passenger seat sat Donald Ross.

He didn't look like an executive recruiter anymore. His charcoal overcoat had been replaced by a heavy, grease-stained black wax-cotton jacket, the collar turned up against the wind. His face was pale, his jaw set in an ugly, rigid line as he watched me through the wet glass.

Beside him sat a man built like an industrial boiler—Callum Boyd, the "yard foreman" whose heavy fists and brass knuckles had kept the dormitory quiet for three years in my previous life.

I didn't run. I didn't look around for the two unmarked Police Scotland Astra hatchbacks I knew were sitting half a mile back down the road in the driveway of an abandoned stone croft.

I pulled the collar of my olive jacket tight around my neck, hunched my shoulders against the driving sleet, and trudged across the asphalt, playing the part of an exhausted, terrified traveler who had run out of options.

The passenger door of the Transit swung open with a rusty shriek.

"Get in, you little bastard," Ross growled, his voice barely audible over the howl of the wind.

I climbed up into the high cab, pulling my wet canvas bag into the footwell between my knees. The interior smelled of stale cigarette smoke, wet dog, and the unmistakable, sharp chemical reek of industrial hydraulic fluid.

Before the door had even clicked shut, Boyd slammed the gearshift into first and dropped the clutch. The rear tires spun violently against the wet gravel, spewing mud against the ditch before catching traction and rocketing the van onto the empty tarmac of the A90 north.

Ross didn't look at me. He kept his eyes locked on the gray ribbon of road ahead, his knuckles white against his knees.

"You cost me two hours at the terminal, Vance," Ross said, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating octave of pure menace. "Two hours of explaining to the port authority why my contractor was wandering through secondary inspection like a lost tourist."

"They pulled my educational transcripts for a random audit, Mr. Ross," I said, letting my voice quiver with just the right amount of nervous, breathless apology. "The officer said my university accreditation needed an electronic cross-check. I... I didn't know what was happening. I thought I was going to be deported."

Boyd let out a guttural, wet chuckle from behind the steering wheel, his scarred hands resting casually on the plastic rim. "Deported? Nae chance of that, lad. Nobody leaves the yard once the gate locks behind them."

Ross snapped his head toward the driver, his eyes flashing with a sharp, warning glare. "Shut your face, Callum. Drive."

He turned back to me, his expression smoothing into a chilling, synthetic mask of corporate reassurance that was ten times more terrifying than Boyd’s casual cruelty.

"Don't mind Callum, Marcus," Ross said smoothly, reaching out to pat my knee with a heavy, leaden hand. "He's just having a laugh. We were worried about you, that's all. Julian Mercer expects his key personnel to be on site on schedule. We've got a critical diagnostic run on the Caledonian Venture at the high tide tomorrow morning. We can't afford delays."

He leaned closer, his eyes scanning my surplus jacket, lingering on the slight bulge beneath my left lapel.

"Now then," Ross whispered, his voice silky, almost tender. "Let's take care of that paperwork properly before we reach the security gate. Give me the folder. The passport, the visa voucher, the indemnity waivers. I'll put them in the company safe in the site office so they don't get ruined by the damp in the dorms."

He held out his gloved hand.

I looked at his palm. Then I looked out the side window.

We had just passed the stone road marker for the village of Cruden Bay. The landscape had flattened out into jagged coastal cliffs, where the gray Atlantic surf was smashing into twenty-foot plumes of white foam against the black basalt rocks below.

The turnoff for the Peterhead industrial marine yard was less than three miles ahead—a private, gravel road that wound between high earth berms topped with eight-foot razor wire, leading down into an isolated, deep-water inlet where the police cameras couldn't see.

"I left the folder in my checked luggage, Mr. Ross," I lied, looking straight into his cold, gray eyes.

Ross froze.

"What?" he hissed.

"The terminal bag handlers told me that international transit documents over twelve pages had to be declared in secondary baggage inspection," I said, my expression a masterpiece of wide-eyed, innocent stupidity. "They locked the large leather case into the oversized cargo bay. They said the company courier would collect it at the freight depot in Peterhead this afternoon."

Boyd glanced over from the steering wheel, a sudden flicker of unease crossing his brutal, heavy features. "Donald... the freight depot has customs officers on the gate today. The MCA inspection unit is running spot checks on commercial cargo."

Ross’s face went entirely, beautifully white.

"You stupid American piece of trash," Ross breathed, his fingers curling into a trembling, leather-clad fist that rose six inches from my jaw. "You left the signed Tortola indemnities in commercial freight?!"

"Was... was that wrong?" I stammered, shrinking back against the vinyl seat, playing the coward to absolute perfection. "I thought... I thought company policy—"

"Shut up!" Ross roared, his composure completely disintegrating into frantic, high-velocity panic. He lunged across the cab, his hand grabbing my jacket collar, twisting the fabric until the brass buttons strained. "If those papers hit the customs scanner at the depot, Julian's name is on every single unauthorized transit manifest!"

He let go of my collar, slamming his palm against the dashboard so hard the plastic trim cracked.

"Turn the van around, Callum!" Ross screamed. "Head for the Peterhead freight terminal! We intercept that case before the depot agents clear the seal!"

Boyd stomped on the brakes.

The heavy Transit skidded sideways across the rain-slicked asphalt, its tires howling in protest as it swung into a violent, uncontrolled U-turn across the narrow road, rocking hard on its leaf springs before accelerating back south toward the very trap Craig Campbell’s tactical units had laid two hours ago.

I sat back against the vinyl seat, resting my head against the cold glass of the window.

Through the rain-streaked mirror on the passenger door, I saw a gray Vauxhall Astra pull out of an access lane two hundred yards behind us, its headlights dark, its radio antenna whipping in the gale.