Carl took three deliberate steps out from behind the caged partition, holding both hands out to his sides like a man guiding an emergency crew onto a tarmac. "I caught him red-handed, Marcus. Bay 7 was supposed to be clear forty minutes ago. I came down the catwalk to verify his count and caught him slipping back from the Cage 4 corridor. Shoved something straight into his vest when he heard my boots."
"That's a lie," I said, looking straight at Lowe. "Check the scanner terminal on Bay 7. I’ve logged two hundred and fourteen cartons of saline since eight o’clock. I haven't been within fifty yards of the narcotics vault."
"Step back from the jack," Dennis ordered, unholstering the cuffs with a metallic snap.
He didn't wait for an answer. Dennis stepped into my personal space, his shoulder driving hard into my collarbone as he spun me toward the chain-link divider. His rough hands patted down my denim thighs, moved up to my waist, and then drove straight into the left breast pocket of my work vest. His thick fingers hooked around the stiff edge of the four-ounce poly bag and dragged it out into the glare of Lowe's flashlight.
The fine white powder settled heavily at the bottom of the heat-sealed pouch.
"Schedule-two concentrate," Dennis muttered, weighing the packet in his palm before setting it flat on the steel inspection shelf next to the gate. "Looks like four ounces of pure hydromorphone base. Street value alone would buy this whole dock."
Carl let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a look of manufactured pity that turned my stomach. "Kid threw away thirty years of pension for a quick score. I told you, Marcus. These temp agency hires don't have any skin in the game. They come in for ninety days, learn the blind spots in the perimeter cameras, and take whatever isn't bolted down."
"Look at the label, Mr. Lowe," I demanded, leaning my weight against the mesh as Dennis gripped my right wrist. "Just read the thermal sticker before you lock those cuffs. Don't look at Carl. Look at the plastic."
Lowe frowned, his jaw tightening under his trimmed gray beard. He was an ex-marine who had run logistics security here for nine years; he hated Carl’s arrogance, but he hated missing inventory worse. He stepped over to the metal shelf, clicked on the penlight clipped to his shirt pocket, and bent close over the bag.
"The paper is still warm," I pressed, the words tumbling out fast and clear. "Thermal paper from the mobile printers cools off within sixty seconds of coming off the roller. That label was printed ten minutes ago on the belt unit Carl keeps in his supervisor cubicle. And look at the left corner—it’s peeling. There's red ink underneath."
Lowe’s gloved thumb caught the loose edge of the thermal adhesive. He pulled it back an eighth of an inch.
Underneath the fresh printout that bore my name and night receiving code, a faint red rubber stamp showed through the transparent backing: REQUISITION 884-B — AUDIT CLEARANCE.
Lowe’s eyes flicked up, meeting Carl’s face for half a second. "Eight-eight-four Bravo was the afternoon disposal batch. Sterling’s team cleared that vault at four o'clock before the district auditors left for the airport."
A flicker of genuine tension crossed Carl’s mouth, but it vanished almost instantly, replaced by a cold, condescending shrug. "So the kid's smarter than we thought. He didn't just breach Cage 4 tonight—he swiped an audit holdover that was staged for morning transport. He slapped his own work tag on it so if he got stopped by the yard patrol, he could claim it was an internal transfer."
"That doesn't make any sense and you know it," I said. "Why would I put my own name on a stolen narcotics bag? Why would anyone write their own death warrant?"
"Desperate people do stupid things, Vance," Dennis grunted, wrenching my left arm behind my back. The steel cuff snapped shut around my wrist, biting hard into the skin over my radial bone. "My job isn't to figure out why you're an idiot. My job is securing the product."
"Wait, Dennis," Lowe said quietly, holding up a flat palm. "Leave the second cuff off for a second."
Lowe turned toward the wall-mounted terminal bolted to the concrete pillar at the corner of Bay 7. He tapped his master access key against the sensor, the monitor humming as it woke from power-saving mode. "If Vance was at Bay 7 all night, the overhead optical sensor logged his motion every thirty seconds. And Cage 4 requires a biometric punch. If his thumb wasn't on the vault reader, Carl, you and I are going to have a very long conversation in Human Resources."
For the briefest instant, a sliver of relief opened up in my chest. The system was supposed to be impartial. The cameras didn't hold grudges, and the digital logs didn't care about Carl’s seniority. If Lowe pulled the live feed from the overhead lens, he would see me unloading the saline crates, pallet by pallet, while Carl sat in his booth fifty yards away.
Then Lowe stopped typing.