THE LAST MEAL ON ALASKAN WAY

The final route did not belong to Silas directly.

That was the problem.

His arrest had shattered the center of the network, but pieces kept moving because people farther down the chain still expected money.

Price spread a map across the conference table.

“Seattle to Anacortes by truck. Ferry transfer under false seafood documentation. Final handoff on Vancouver Island.”

I stared at the route.

“How many people?”

“We do not know.”

“Who runs the handoff?” Gabriel asked.

“Name in the ledger is only initials. L.N.”

Dante looked at Sofia.

“Luca Neri.”

Price turned. “Who?”

“A former Moretti contractor. He handled cross-border freight until I terminated him four years ago.”

“Why?”

“He stole cargo.”

“What kind?”

“Electronics.”

Gabriel frowned. “That is what we knew he stole.”

Dante’s expression darkened.

Price tapped the map.

“We need him to believe the route is still safe.”

“What do you need from us?” I asked.

She looked at Dante.

“His signature.”

Dante understood.

“Neri will expect authorization codes from Moretti systems.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to reactivate the route.”

“For monitoring only.”

Dante sat back.

“If anyone checks federal databases—”

“They will see nothing until the arrest phase.”

Gabriel said, “Silas may warn Neri from detention.”

“He is on restricted communications.”

“Silas has never considered restrictions binding.”

Price’s eyes cooled. “Then we watch his lawyers too.”

The operation went forward.

For twenty-four hours, Dante’s old organization pretended to breathe again.

Sofia restored one encrypted dispatch channel. Gabriel sent a coded message using a phrase Silas’s people trusted. Price’s team created false cargo entries.

I had no operational role.

That should have relieved me.

Instead I felt restless.

Dante noticed.

“You do not have to be useful every minute.”

I looked at him. “You do not get to say that while rebuilding a criminal communications network for federal agents.”

“Fair.”

We were sitting in a diner near the waterfront because I had refused another meal in one of his restaurants.

He pushed a plate of fries toward me.

“You ate?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He looked at my untouched sandwich.

“That was a lie.”

“You are becoming annoying.”

“I had a good teacher.”

I took a bite just to end the argument.

Outside, rain washed the windows.

“You know,” I said, “the night I gave you that food, I was furious with myself afterward.”

“Why?”

“Because I was hungry.”

He looked surprised.

“I walked three miles to work telling myself I was an idiot.”

“And now?”

“I still think giving away all your food when you have none is bad budgeting.”

He laughed.

Then his expression softened.

“Why did you do it?”

“My father.”

“I know what he taught you.”

“No. I mean one specific memory.”

I looked down at the table.

“When I was ten, we saw a man outside a grocery store asking for change. Dad had twelve dollars in his wallet. He gave him ten and kept two for bus fare. I asked why he did not keep more.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Because hunger is loud, even when people are quiet.’”

Dante’s gaze stayed on me.

“That is what you saw at the terminal.”

“Yes.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then his phone buzzed.

The route was active.

Price called thirty minutes later.

“Neri took the bait.”

We met at the federal command center.

A truck had departed a warehouse south of Seattle carrying seafood crates and eight hidden passengers. Agents were following at distance.

The plan was to intercept before the ferry crossing.

Then the truck stopped unexpectedly near Mount Vernon.

Sofia zoomed the traffic camera.

A second vehicle pulled alongside.

Two people transferred from the truck into a van.

Price swore.

“They split the route.”

Dante pointed at the van.

“That vehicle is heading east.”

“Toward Highway 20,” Gabriel said.

“Border crossing?”

“No,” Dante replied. “Private airfield.”

Price issued orders.

Then another monitor flashed.

The original truck accelerated toward Anacortes.

Two routes. Two groups. One team could not cover both without revealing the surveillance.

Price looked at Dante.

“Which vehicle matters more?”

He shook his head.

“Both.”

I stared at the map.

Then I remembered the ledger notation beside the route code.

ACTIVE — PRIORITY BLUE.

“Blue,” I said.

Everyone turned.

“What?”

“Silas used blue for the most important records. Maybe priority blue means the people in the van matter more to the network.”

Price looked at the ledger copy.

Gabriel nodded slowly.

“Witnesses. Couriers. Someone valuable.”

Price split the teams.

And for once, the clue my father had never intended to leave us pointed forward instead of backward.

Price assigned separate teams to both vehicles, but before they moved she warned us not to read too much into one old color code. “Patterns guide investigation,” she said. “They do not replace verification.”

I nodded. My father had taught me something similar without using those words. Name what is in the room, not what you are afraid might be there.

The van’s registration came back to a shell company funded from an account listed in the blue ledger. That gave Price the verification she wanted.

“Now we have pattern plus evidence,” she said.

Dante glanced at me. “Your blue theory survives.”

“For now.”

“You sound like Price.”