“Somebody missed his boyfriend,” Parker drawled from the swivel chair, legs tucked up, pink highlights shining through her dark brown hair, hoodie sleeves flapping as she typed. She didn’t look away from her triple-monitor setup. “Wrecker’s late with his breakfast again.”
Wrecker grunted, dumped a box of scones from Aspen’s bakery, and flicked Rocket’s ear as he passed. The dog huffed, then went right back to licking my knuckles like they tasted like beef jerky.
Parker pointed a remote at the wall, lighting up the primary display. “Alright, gents. Here’s the info.” She hit a key, and the screen filled with a list of business holdings in Maltraz’s portfolio.
Wrecker swept all the loose gear off the nearest chair, dropped into it, and started running his own laptop. “These all of ‘em?”
“All as of the time he thought he was draining Iron Valor accounts,” Parker said. “I’ve started working out from there. I’m focusing on warehouses and trucking companies now, looking for logos that carry his sigils.”
The holographic display hummed to life, casting blue shadows across Parker’s face as she leaned forward in the spinning chair. “Maltraz’s empire’s got more layers than a good lasagna,” she said, fingers dancing across two keyboards at once. A spiderweb of corporate entities bloomed across the main screen - Cypress Holdings, Blackmast Logistics, a dozen others with innocuous names.
My finger traced a glowing connection between them. “Shell companies feeding shell companies. Classic laundering.” My eyes adjusted to the light of the screens as they parsed data streams. “But there’s a through-line here.”
“Bingo.” Parker punched a key, and six red pins stabbed into a map of the harbor district. “All these ‘legitimate’ shippingsubsidiaries lease dock space from…” The screen zoomed in on a crumbling warehouse complex. “…Steiner Maritime Properties.”
Wrecker’s soda can crumpled in his fist behind them. “Our friendly neighborhood restaurateur and strip club owner owns the docks now?”
“Not directly.” Parker spun up tax records that blurred at the edges - redacted sections glowing like infected wounds. “Steiner’s got a silent partner. Something called Horizon’s Reach LLC, registered in the Caymans.” Her nose wrinkled. “Which just happens to share a P.O. box with Maltraz’s ‘retirement fund.’”
I tilted my head toward the shipping timetables suddenly scrolling beside the map. “These cargo manifests. The weight distributions are off.”
“Like they’re reporting half the containers they’re actually moving,” Parker nodded, pulling up customs documents that shimmered with digital tampering traces. “And guess which patrol routes get ‘rerouted’ whenever these ghost ships come in?” She threw military deployment charts onto a secondary screen, the gaps in coverage pulsing like open wounds.
The room buzzed with the quiet fury of puzzle pieces snapping into place. No smoking gun yet, but the shape of the gunpowder trail was forming; a shadow empire built on stolen lives, its roots sunk deep beneath legitimate businesses. I gripped the edge of the console, my voice a low growl.
“Find me a thread. However small.”
Her grin was all teeth and reflected screen light. “Already tracing Horizon’s bank feeds. If Maltraz sneezed near those docks, we’ll find the tissue.”
Outside, thunder rumbled - either a coming storm or the distant detonation of one of Wrecker’s “stress relief experiments”. The real explosion was happening here, in theelectric space between data points and human desperation, where monsters hid behind spreadsheets.
I watched the screen, following the arrows and lines. “They’re not moving drugs. Too careful.”
“No,” Wrecker said. “Bodies. Nothing that leaves a chemical signature.”
I ran a finger over Rocket’s spine, thinking. “If they’re moving them by rail, the containers will be lined. Shielded.”
Parker grinned, “Already on it. Most of the shipments are labeled as perishables—produce, seafood, that kind of shit. But when you cross-reference the weights, half of the containers are ten percent heavier than listed. That’s a lot of celery.”
“Or a lot of spelled people,” Wrecker added.
He leaned in, scanning the scrolling data. “Notice the pattern? Every third Friday night, a double batch unloads from the railcar to the holding facility at the docks. Cargo then gets loaded onto a Maersk freighter.”
I traced the route in my mind. “That explains why they have witches on the payroll. They have to have someone on hand to spell their merchandise and control the scene.”
“That’s my guess as well,” Parker said. “And they ship these poor people overseas. Every final destination is either Korea, Thailand, or some private port in the Philippines.”
Wrecker turned, eyes cold and bright. “That’s a Maltraz signature if I ever saw one. It’s evil. Only the sickos with enough money can buy a new pet every month.”
Rocket whined and nudged my hand harder. I gave him a rub behind the ears, trying to steady the burn in my chest.
“Alright,” I said, “so we know where they’re going. Question is, how do they get them out? You can’t just walk human cargo past customs, even spelled.”
Parker grinned wider. “That’s the sickest part. Most of the containers have a double wall—hidden space inside. Some even have oxygen tanks, rations. They’re built for survival.”
Wrecker’s hands hovered over his keyboard. “You remember that story from last year? Four kids found alive in a storage unit, no memory of how they got there?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I’d bet that was a dry run. Now they’ve perfected it.”
I felt my jaw grinding, a remnant of an old military tic. “How many have they moved?”
