When I rounded the corner of the primary warehouse, I stopped.
A large, unmarked transport truck was backed up to the loading bay. The engine was idling, a low, rhythmic rumble that covered the sound of my footsteps.
Standing on the loading platform were Trent, Miller, and Hayes.
They weren't wearing their standard instructor uniforms. They were dressed in sterile black tactical gear with no insignia.
I pressed my back against a stack of wooden pallets, holding my breath.
Trent was holding a tablet, directing two men I didn't recognize as they loaded heavy, black pelican cases into the back of the truck.
I squinted through the darkness. The cases were marked with the same serial prefixes I had seen in Thorne’s files. Shipment 404.
I pulled my burner phone from my pocket and switched the camera to night mode, recording the license plate of the truck and the faces of the men moving the crates.
“Careful with that one,” Trent barked quietly. “If you crack the casing, the server is useless.”
Servers?
My brow furrowed. The manifest said surplus ammunition. But they were moving high-capacity server racks. Blackwood didn't sell servers. They stored encrypted tactical data. Blueprints. Deployment schedules. Covert operative identities.
Trent wasn't stealing guns. He was stealing information.
Suddenly, the wind shifted. A loose piece of plastic wrapping on the pallets beside me caught a gust of air and snapped loudly against the wood.
Trent’s head snapped in my direction.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his hand dropping to the holster on his thigh.
I froze, pressing myself deeper into the shadows.
Miller and Hayes drew their weapons, spreading out and advancing toward the pallets.
I had seconds to decide. If they found me hiding in the dark, they would shoot me and claim I was an intruder. I had to change the narrative.
I quickly slipped my phone back into my pocket, stepped out from behind the pallets, and clicked on my standard-issue heavy flashlight, shining it directly at my own feet to avoid blinding them.
“Just me,” I called out, letting my voice sound slightly breathless and annoyed. “Night patrol. Hayes gave me the schedule this morning.”
Trent held his hand up, signaling his men to lower their weapons, though they didn't holster them.
He walked slowly down the concrete ramp, his eyes locked onto mine. The amber light caught the harsh angles of his face.
“You’re a long way from the administrative wing, Vance,” Trent said softly, stopping three feet in front of me.
“Just walking my route,” I said, keeping my posture relaxed, playing the part of the clueless civilian. I looked past him toward the truck. “What’s going on here? Am I supposed to log this transport?”
Trent stared at me for a long, suffocating moment. He was trying to read me. Trying to see if the woman who had effortlessly dodged his kick that morning was currently planning to kill him.
I kept my breathing steady. I let a little bit of nervous energy show in my shoulders.
“No,” Trent finally said, stepping closer until he towered over me. “This is classified transport. Above your clearance. In fact, everything that happens on this dock tonight never happened.”
“Understood,” I said quickly.
“Do you?” Trent asked. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Thorne thought he understood, too. But he kept asking questions. Now he’s a closed file in a police precinct.”
He was confessing. He was so arrogant, so confident in his power here, that he was openly telling me he killed my predecessor.
“I don't care about the files,” I lied, letting my eyes dart toward the ground in feigned submission. “I just want to do my job and get paid.”
Trent smirked, apparently satisfied that his physical intimidation was working.
“Good. Because if I ever see you out here again,” he whispered, his breath hot against my cheek, “you won't have a job. You won't have a pulse.”
He stepped back.