The city hums around me, but my mind’s on Redwood Lodge.
Three hours from now, I’ll be there, ready to uncover the Night Ops Guard’s secrets. I picture their smug faces, thinking they’re untouchable, and a fire ignites in my chest.
They’ve dodged justice for too long, but today, I’m bringing the fight to them.
This is my big day, and nothing’s going to stop me.
I hail a cab to the bus station, my heart pounding with purpose. The Night Ops Guard’s about to meet their match, and his name is Miles Nadal…
The three-hour drive to Redwood Lodge passes in a blur of podcasts and nervous energy. I grip the steering wheel, my mind replaying the leaked file’s details:Redwood Lodge, Crestwood City outskirts.Bean sits buckled into the passenger seat, his button eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. “
We’re close, buddy,” I murmur, patting Bean’s fuzzy head and stroking his delightful little ears. “This is it.”
Crestwood City is smaller than I expected, more a sleepy town than a bustling hub. The GPS leads me to a quiet street lined with unassuming buildings, and I spot Redwood Lodge—a nondescript office block, three stories of beige brick and tinted windows.
It’s the kind of place you’d drive past without a second glance, nothing like the high-tech lairs I imagined for the so-called Night Ops Guard. Perfect for their secrecy, though. My stomach twists with a mix of excitement and nerves.
I park a block away, checking my watch. The meeting’s about to start. I slip out of the car and pop the trunk, pulling out my go-to disguise—a delivery man’s uniform, complete with a navy cap and a fake name tag reading “Sam.”
I tug the cap low over my eyes and grab a nondescript package wrapped in brown paper, a prop I’ve used a dozen times. The old delivery guy trick never fails. People don’t question someone with a clipboard and a purpose.
I sling my backpack over one shoulder, Bean tucked safely inside, and clip the clipboard to my belt. My phone’s camera is charged, ready to snap photos of anyone leaving the meeting.
If I can get eyes on the Night Ops Guard—or better, overhear their plans—I’ll have the evidence to blow their operation wide open. I flash a grin at my reflection in the car window. “Showtime, Miles.”
The office block’s lobby is dim, the fluorescent lights flickering. A bored security guard glances up from his desk, barely registering me.
“Delivery for Suite 3B,” I say, holding up the package and flashing a practiced smile. My heart hammers, but I keep my voice steady. “All good?”
“All good,” the security dude replies, barely looking up from his phone.
He waves me through without checking my ID.
Sloppy, but lucky for me.
I take the stairs two at a time, my sneakers silent on the worn carpet. Suite 3B is on the third floor, tucked at the end of a long hallway.
The building’s eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that makes every creak echo. I pause outside the door, my ear pressed to the cool wood.
A muffled voice filters through—deep, male, clipped with authority.
I can’t make out words, but the tone screams control, precision.
I fish my phone from my pocket, switching it to silent and setting the camera to burst mode. If I can find a vantage point—maybe a vent or a corner to hide in—I can snap photos as they leave. I scan the hallway, spotting a janitor’s closet a few doors down.
Perfect.
I’ll stash myself there after I get a better listen.
I lean closer to the door, straining to catch any scrap of conversation.
My clipboard slips slightly, and I adjust it, the package balanced awkwardly in my arms. Just as I shift my weight, the door swings open with a whoosh, and a strong hand grips my arm, yanking me inside.
I stumble, the package tumbling to the floor as the door slams shut behind me.
Panic surges, my breath catching in my throat.
I’m in a small, windowless meeting room, a long table surrounded by empty chairs.
