Pocho led them to the industrial strip near the rail yard.
Old storage buildings. Half-used warehouses. Closed machine shops.
It made sense.
Close to the van. Close to previous attack zones. Quiet after dark.
Police units spread out.
Unmarked cars parked at corners. Lights off. Engines low.
Pocho stood near Warehouse 17.
Rust on the doors. Chain loose.
"It fits," Harris said.
"Yes."
Pocho motioned for two officers to move up.
They cut the chain.
Doors opened slowly.
Inside —
Empty.
Dust. Old pallets. Nothing else.
No rope. No victims. No blood.
Just space.
They searched three more buildings.
Same result.
Nothing.
Harris walked back toward him.
"You sure about this zone?"
"Yes."
"Then why is it empty?"
Pocho didn't answer.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered immediately.
"Yes."
"You're standing in the wrong building," the killer said calmly.
Pocho's jaw tightened.
"Where are they?"
"You were so confident."
"Tell me where they are."
"You like doors," the killer continued. "You think I hide behind them."
Silence.
"You're predictable."
Pocho didn't react.
"Look up," the killer said.
The line went dead.
Pocho slowly lifted his eyes.
Across the street.
A building with glass windows on the second floor.
Lights off.
But movement.
Small.
Quick.
He stepped back.
"Across," he said.
Units shifted.
They crossed fast.
Breached.
Inside —
Again empty.
Second floor office space.
Old desks. Broken chairs. Dust.
No hostages.
No killer.
Pocho stood in the middle of the room.
Breathing steady.
Harris approached.
"He moved you," Harris said.
"Yes."
"He knew exactly where you'd go."
"Yes."
"You're reacting."
Pocho didn't deny it.
He walked to the window and looked down at the street.
Police vehicles everywhere.
He had turned the area into noise.
If the killer was watching, this was exactly what he wanted.
Chaos.
Misplacement.
Overcommitment.
His phone buzzed again.
Same number.
He answered without speaking.
"I told you," the killer said. "Wrong door."
"You're wasting time," Pocho replied.
"No," the killer said softly. "You are."
Silence.
"You assume location," the killer continued. "I assume behavior."
Pocho's grip tightened on the phone.
"You chase buildings," the killer said. "I chase you."
Click.
Line dead.
---
Pocho lowered the phone slowly.
He understood it now.
The van wasn't bait for a warehouse.
It was bait for him.
The abductions weren't about space.
They were about timing.
He looked at the map in his head.
Three missing.
Four-hour window.
Shift change hours.
Security thin hours.
Rail yard security rotates at 11 p.m.
Warehouse loading docks unmanned between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.
He had focused on geography.
The killer focused on schedule.
"You're not hiding them in a place," Pocho said quietly.
Harris looked at him.
"What?"
"He's moving them."
"Where?"
"Through the system."
"Be specific."
Pocho stepped back from the window.
"Transit routes. Freight zones. Transfer points."
Harris frowned.
"You think he's using transportation timing?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's harder to pin to a door."
Morrison walked in.
"We burned two hours," he said.
Pocho looked at him.
"No," he said calmly.
"We just confirmed something."
"What?"
"He's not static."
Morrison stared at him.
"He's mobile."
And for the first time since the abductions, Pocho wasn't angry.
He wasn't loud.
He was cold.
Because he finally understood the pattern shift.
The killer didn't want a single warehouse.
He wanted movement.
Which meant the final stage wouldn't be abandoned.
It would be operational.
Something active. Something timed. Something that needed control.
Pocho looked at the clock.
8:42 p.m.
Freight yard transfer cycle began at 10.
He turned toward the door.
"Get me the rail yard schedule," he said.
And this time, he wasn't reacting.
He was adapting.