“Keep walking toward the light at the end of the pier,” a voice said.

It was not Moretti.

It was James.

His voice was thin, trembling against the sound of static and wind.

“I am here, James,” I said.

“Don’t bring the cop, and don’t bring Russo,” James said, his breath hitching. “If I see anyone else, it’s over.”

The line went dead.

I looked at Dante in the dim light of the dashboard.

“He is waiting at the end of the pier,” I said. “He sounds terrified.”

Dante reached over and placed his hand over mine.

His palm was warm, a sharp contrast to the freezing cold of the car window.

“My men are already in position behind the shipping containers,” Dante said. “They went in by water.”

“How will I know when they are ready?” I asked.

“You won’t,” Dante said. “Just keep Moretti talking. Let him think he has won.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me a small, heavy object.

It was a small pocket knife with a spring blade.

“Keep this in your jacket pocket,” he said. “If anyone gets too close, use it.”