The wind shifted—salt, diesel, metal—and carried just enough sound from the convoy for me to count bodies.
Three by the escort sedans. One pacing at the rear of the transport. Two at the pickup. One at the checkpoint shack.
Six. Not many. But enough to ruin this pier if we made a mistake.
Voodoo slid up beside me, eyes scanning angles. Lunchbox moved ahead like a shadow with teeth. I stayed low, Glock ready, senses tuned. Alphabet’s voice crackled in my ear.
“Eyes on everything. Seven targets, low alert, keep it clean,” he said.
“We go quiet,” I muttered. “No gunfire unless absolutely necessary.”
Lunchbox smirked. “Been waiting to do this.”
Voodoo nodded once.
We moved.
Two at thesedans were leaning against their cars, smoking, careless. Dead men walking. The third stood a few feet away, radio or cell phone in hand like he was waiting for a call.
Lunchbox took the left, I went right, Voodoo covered the center. Shadows sliding across concrete.
Lunchbox reached his guy first—hand clamped over the mouth, a quick twist to the wrist, and the man went down silent. I moved my target next, elbow driving into the back of his skull just enough to make him fold. Voodoo eased the second down with a chokehold before he could react.
All three unconscious before anyone could even think to reach for a gun.
I was on the man pacing behind the transport. Arm across the throat, wrist twisting, and the man crumpled. No noise, no chance to scream.
With hand signals, I sent Lunchbox and Voodoo after the two by the pickup. They moved like a pair of ghosts, siding behind them and taking them down in controlled chokes.
The last one was the man in the reflective vest—eyes sharp enough to ruin everything if he saw us.
Voodoo and Lunchbox actually did rock, paper scissors for the asshole and I rolled my eyes. But Voodoo’s scissors sliced through Lunchbox’s paper. Just as swiftly, Voodoo took out his target.
I tapped a message to Alphabet via the comms.SITREP
Alphabet confirmed. “No alerts. You’re ghosts. Clean sweep so far.”
Seven bodies down. All unconscious.
We regrouped behind the transport, movements smooth, breaths calm. Alphabet’s voice floated in the comms.
“All feeds still black. You’re clear.”
Voodoo stepped up beside me, eyes on the cracked-open rear door. Lunchbox exhaled. “Warm-up’s done.”
I nodded. “Time for the main event.”
Hand on the door, I felt the dark inside exhale at us.
“Eyes up,” I said, voice low steel. “No mistakes.”
We ghosted forward.
Three shadows slipping through darker shadows, silent as we could get on concrete that wanted to echo every damn step. With the escort team down, we just needed to deal with the guards on the transport itself.
Lunchbox tapped my arm once—two guards nearest the truck, one on patrol near the containers, and another lingering by the cab.
Four total.
