Doable.
I gestured left. Lunchbox peeled off, melting into the container shadows with the kind of fluidity a man his size shouldn’t have. Voodoo circled right, keeping low. I headed dead center toward the pacing guard.
The man hummed under his breath—nervous energy. Didn’t matter.
His head turned at the wrong moment.
My forearm clamped around his throat, cutting off air and voice. He kicked once, twice—weak. Training, panic, both in the wrong order. I guided him down in total silence, lowering his body until it touched concrete with all the weight of a falling leaf.
One down.
Lunchbox grabbed his target from behind a stack of crates, slammed him into the steel wall just once, and caught him before he hit the floor. Voodoo’s target crumpled without a sound.
Three down.
We waited for the last—the one near the cab—to turn his back.
He did.
Lunchbox was on him before the man realized the world had shifted. A quick chokehold, a soft thump, body tucked under the truck frame.
Four down.
Good.
We moved to the transport.
Up close, the blackout hauler was worse. Taller. Reinforced. The kind of metal that didn’t flex in temperature changes. Something purpose-built for hiding human cargo.
I exchanged a look with Voodoo, then signaled Lunchbox up.
We went to the rear.
Lunchbox eased the latch. It was heavy, secure, recently locked. But nothing we couldn’t handle. The door shifted an inch.
Inside, I heard something?—
A stifled sob.
Voodoo’s jaw locked. “People.”
“More kids?” Lunchbox whispered.
“No.” My gut knew before the door swung enough to show us.
I opened it wider.
Rows. Layers. Bodies huddled together.
Women.
Dozens of them.
Young—too young—pale faces washed in the dim red emergency light the transport used to hide its movement. Eastern European features. Some with bruises. Some shaking. All terrified.
Some held each other, whispering. Some stared with hollow, resigned eyes. Some recoiled instinctively at the movement.
One finally spoke in a trembling voice.
