They found him near the loading docks at 9:27 p.m.
One of the missing men.
Delivery driver.
Thirty-two years old.
Left behind a stack of wooden pallets.
Breathing.
Barely.
Pocho reached him first.
Both arms broken.
One leg fractured.
Ribs damaged.
Not finished.
The same pattern.
Controlled.
Measured.
But incomplete.
Paramedics moved fast.
Pocho stayed beside him long enough to hear something.
The man grabbed his sleeve weakly.
"He said… you'd come," the man whispered.
"Where?" Pocho asked.
The man swallowed.
"Final stop."
That was all he could manage before they loaded him up.
---
Harris stepped up beside Pocho.
"He left him alive on purpose."
"Yes."
"To send a message."
"Yes."
"He could've killed him."
"Yes."
Pocho stood slowly.
"He didn't."
Silence.
"He's not done," Pocho said.
---
Back at the station, the board changed again.
Two still missing.
One recovered.
Broken but alive.
Morrison looked at the map.
"Final stop," he repeated.
"What's that mean?" Harris asked.
Pocho stared at the freight lines.
Transfer stations. Storage facilities. Distribution hubs.
"End of route," Pocho said.
"Be specific."
"Where things don't move anymore."
"Storage?"
"No."
"Junkyard?"
"No."
Pocho looked at the city transit overlay.
Freight came in. Freight went out.
But some cargo stopped permanently.
Industrial waste processing.
Metal crushing.
Scrap compaction.
Harris followed his eyes.
"Metal yard."
Pocho shook his head.
"Too obvious."
He turned to another facility on the map.
Old train car dismantling site.
Closed to the public.
Used occasionally for demolition training.
Controlled explosions.
Heavy machinery.
Crushers.
Silence filled the room.
"If he wants a performance," Harris said quietly, "that's one."
"Yes."
Morrison looked at Pocho.
"You sure?"
"No."
"Then we move carefully."
Pocho didn't argue.
But inside, something shifted.
The recovered victim changed things.
The killer wasn't just abducting.
He was staging.
Leaving one alive meant:
Witness.
Message.
Timing.
He wanted Pocho moving in a specific direction.
But this time, Pocho didn't feel frantic.
He felt steady.
The screaming in the interrogation room days ago felt distant now.
That wasn't control.
This was.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered.
"You found one," the killer said.
"Yes."
"I told you I wasn't hiding."
"Where are the other two?"
Pause.
"You're getting closer," the killer replied.
"Give me the location."
"You're almost there."
Silence.
"You left him alive," Pocho said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"So you'd understand."
"Understand what?"
"That I choose when it ends."
Pocho didn't respond.
"I don't need all of them," the killer continued. "Just enough."
"Enough for what?"
"A statement."
Click.
Line dead.
---
Pocho lowered the phone slowly.
He understood something clearly now.
The killer wasn't trying to escape.
He wasn't trying to survive.
He was controlling tempo.
He was building toward a specific moment.
And he wanted Pocho there.
Not as a negotiator.
Not as a hero.
As witness.
Pocho looked at the dismantling site again.
Heavy crushers. Metal jaws. Soundproof sections.
Final stop.
He turned to Morrison.
"We move on that site," he said calmly.
Morrison studied him.
"This isn't a rush."
"No," Pocho replied. "It's timing."
"And you're sure he wants you there?"
"Yes."
"And you're walking into that?"
"Yes."
Harris looked at him.
"You're calm."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Pocho didn't hesitate.
"Because he thinks he's controlling this."
And for the first time in days, that felt like an advantage.