Thirteen
GRACE
The port looked ordinary. That was the first thing that struck me.
Just rows of corrugated steel containers in dull colors, cranes moving like patient metal giants, trucks weaving through lanes painted with peeling lines—nothing that screamedmonsters operate here. Nothing that hinted at the kind of nightmare my sister had been swallowed by.
But the guys didn’t trust ordinary. Neither did I.
Bones drove slow as we looped around the perimeter roads—sweeping each access point, the chain-link fences, the double gates, the security booths. Voodoo took photos from low angles with his phone. Legend muttered observations under his breath, and AB kept tapping on his tablet, cross-referencing what he saw outside with the digital breadcrumbs he’d collected.
Goblin, head in my lap, watched it all in silent, canine judgment.
We took a short foray to a park to let Goblin walk. I took “point” on the task with AB so he could stretch his legs, and the others went two blocks down for coffee and food. By the time they returned, I had most of the kinks out of my back and Goblin was in a better mood.
When Bones finally pulled into a plain, beige-and-brown highway hotel a mile down from the port, I felt the tension in the SUV shift. We weren’t pouncing yet—we were staging.
The lobby smelled faintly of burned coffee and industrial carpet cleaner. Legend handled the check-in with a casual charm that made the clerk forget to blink, and minutes later, the five of us crammed into a single room with two beds and an extra rolling chair.
Voodoo locked the door behind us. Bones closed the curtains. Goblin sniffed the floor like he was sweeping for landmines.
Legend tossed the keycard on the dresser. “Alright. Recon review.”
We gathered around the small circular table while AB set up at the room’s desk, his laptops and drives clicking into place like he was assembling a portable command center.
I wasn’t quite ready to eat even if they picked up sandwiches, including a ham and swiss croissant for me. Though, after France, that sandwich looked terribly sad in its plastic wrap. So I left that in the bag and claimed my coffee.
“Alright,” I said, sipping the flat white while they began their breakdown. “What can I do to help?”
Bones looked at me first. Always him. Always that quiet, anchoring weight in his gray eyes.
“That depends,” he said slowly. “Do you want to be on-site? Or stay here and back us up?”
My heartbeat lifted in my chest, not from fear—something heavier. “Define ‘on-site.’”
Voodoo leaned back in the rolling chair. “On-site means you’re physically with us. Potential eyes-on with Sarmiento’s crew. Possible proximity to danger. Not necessarily engaging—just shadowing us.”
Legend added, “Staying means you watch feeds AB sets up. You run comms with us, call out any shifts in traffic, securitypatrols, container movement, or anything weird we can’t see from the ground.”
I swallowed once. “What are the goals?”
“Threefold,” Bones said, holding up fingers.
“One—locate Sarmiento, confirm he’s actually here and not just using this port as a drop point.”
“Two—identify his crew. Anyone connected. Anyone loyal. Faces, habits, routine.”
“Three—figure out the physical layout of his operation. What containers he uses. Who he pays. How they move cargo.”
Legend cracked his neck. “Four—don’t get caught.”
“That too,” Bones said dryly.
I exhaled slowly, sorting through the buzzing static in my head. “So if I go with you, I’m—what? A spotter?”
“More than that,” Voodoo said, voice calm but threaded with warning. “But less than front-line. You’d be eyes and instincts. You know what this looks like from the inside, Grace. We don’t.”
Legend’s voice softened. “But if staying feels safer, no one will hold it against you. You’ve already done more than most people could stomach.”
