Lunchbox reached across the seat and brandished his dock badge—one of the good fakes, the kind we tried to avoid using but came in handy in situations like this.
The guard flicked his eyes over it before waving us through. Yeah, he wasn’t all that interested in this, so move us along.
Lazy.
Complicit.
Dead in a few minutes if he kept working with the wrong people.
We moved deeper, the warehouse shadows growing long and the sea breeze turning metallic. Voodoo killed our headlights. We glided down another lane of containers, tracking the convoy on the other side.
The convoy turned again—this time toward a row of sealed containers staged at the waterline. The same place we’d found the kids.
My pulse ticked once.
We pulled between the containers. The floodlights were totally out. The convoy idled, their engines loud enough to catch over the waves, the wind, and the hum of equipment in the distance.
Alphabet’s voice sharpened. “That’s Dock 22. That’s where they loaded the others two nights ago.”
The truck slowed.
Stopped.
And then?—
The rear door of the blackout transport cracked open two inches. Just two. Enough to let someone inside peek out. Not enough for us to see who—orwhat—was in there.
Lunchbox muttered, “Anyone else getting the feeling this is about to go sideways?”
Voodoo fingers drummed against his thigh. “Sideways, upside down, on fire—pick one.”
I stared at the transport. At the shadow behind that cracked-open door. At the guard pacing with a hand on his belt. At the escort cars boxing the area. At the containers painted with serial numbers Alphabet flagged earlier.
Then I breathed once, deep. “Grace?” I gave her a moment, a soft beep told me she had unmuted
“We’re good,” she murmured. I nodded even if she couldn’t see it. “Going quiet again.” Another beep as she muted on her end.
“We get closer,” I said.
Legend blinked. “Closer? As in?—”
“As in we get eyes inside that truck,” I said. “Before they unload whatever they’re hiding.”
Lunchbox’s grin spread slow and feral.
“Been waiting for you to say that.”
I cracked the door.
The night air hit my face—cold, sharp, electric.
“Alphabet,” I murmured, stepping out. “Keep us off the grid.”
“You bet your ass I will,” he said.
The convoy moved. People shifted. Weapons glinted.
And as I stepped forward into the belly of the pier, one thing settled like steel inside me—this was always going to end in blood.
