Voodoo grinned like he’d just won a prize. “Exactly. Perfect.”
Bones fell into step beside me, shoulder brushing mine. “Stay close. First pass is wide-angle. Public spaces only.”
Legend led the way toward the boardwalk overlook. Voodoo angled off to take fake photos of the harbor. Goblin sniffed every post like he was conducting his own investigation.
And as I adjusted my ridiculous crab hat again, it struck me, we really did look like tourists.
Lethal tourists.
Determined tourists.
Tourists hunting a predator across state lines.
And the strangest part? For once, the monsters wouldn’t see us coming.
The Atlantic wind cut straight through my oversizedDelawaresweatshirt, sharp enough to sting. It whipped the edges of the pier flags, sent salt spray climbing the air, and made Legend’s iced coffee a questionable life choice.
Despite the cold, a handful of tourists wandered the public overlook—families pointing at container ships, a pair of retired birdwatchers with binoculars, two teenagers taking selfies beneath the “PORT OF DELAWARE” sign.
Completely average.
Completely harmless.
Completely misleading.
Voodoo lifted his camera again, angling it toward the cranes. The shutter clicks were soft beneath the wind, but I knew AB was getting every image in real time—zoomed, filtered, cross-referenced, and compared to satellite data.
In my left ear, AB’s quiet voice buzzed through the comms. “Blue-liveried cranes on Pier C are consistent with the container transfers from three of our flagged manifests. If Sarmiento is here, that’s where he would be staging the movements.”
Bones murmured under his breath, “Pier C is three hundred yards to our right.”
Legend followed my gaze, sipping his slush of melting coffee. “Which means we take our time.”
So we did.
We walked like tourists—casual, curious, slightly cold. Goblin sniffed the boardwalk planks, stopped to investigate a patch of old salt dried into a pattern only he understood, then continued his slow march.
I tried to mirror everyone’s nonchalance, but it felt like wearing someone else’s skin. Too loose. Too soft. Too wrong.
AB’s voice came again, quiet but alert. “Security rotation just shifted. The guy in the bright orange vest is new. He’s walking fast.”
Bones’ eyes flicked without moving his head. “Direction?”
“Toward the Pier C guardhouse.”
Legend muttered, “Convenient.”
We paused at the overlook railing, pretending to admire the cargo ships. They towered above the water, hulking metal beasts belching cold steam into the sky.
“Okay,” AB continued. “Update, two private vehicles entered through the south gate without stopping. No port markings. Not unusual, but they drove straight toward the restricted side of Pier C.”
Voodoo’s camera clicked, clicked, clicked. “Got their plates. AB?”
“Recording.”
The wind gusted hard, rocking the boardwalk under us. I shivered and Bones angled himself between me and the ocean like he could shield me from the air itself.
Still—everything looked normal. Dockworkers in reflective vests. Stacked containers. A local couple taking pictures. Tourists chatting about where to get fresh lobster.
