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The Grade She Couldn't Forget

Chapter 5

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"We need proof of what's underneath," Emmett said."I need to get into the dispatch office," I replied, eyeing the low-slung concrete building attached to the warehouse. "The physical manifest will show the fertilizer. But the routing slip—the internal document that tells the driver where the real drop is—that'll be on the supervisor's desk.""You go," Emmett said, his jaw setting. "I'll get a sample from the false deck.""Emmett, your shoulder—""Is fine," he lied. He pulled a heavy tactical knife from his boot. "I built the latch. I know how to open it silently. Get the paperwork. I'll get the poison. We meet back at the fence in ten minutes."Before I could argue, he melted into the shadows beneath the trailer.Chapter Four: The Routing SlipThe back door to the dispatch office was secured by a heavy deadbolt, but decades of drivers kicking it shut had warped the frame. I slid a thin piece of rigid plastic—a diner menu I’d cut down to size—between the door and the jamb, working the latch until it clicked open with a soft metallic sigh.Inside, the office smelled of stale coffee and cheap cigars. A single desk lamp burned in the corner, illuminating a chaotic sprawl of clipboards, logbooks, and shipping manifests.I moved quickly, keeping away from the windows. I found the stack for outgoing Sunday morning freight. There it was: Trailer 4092. Cargo: Agricultural Supplies. Destination: Portland, Oregon.But stapled beneath the official bill of lading was a smaller, pink carbon copy. A routing slip.My eyes scanned the handwritten scrawl. The drop for the "secondary payload" wasn't Portland. It was an abandoned airstrip sixty miles north, right at the base of the Cascades. And the recipient wasn't a company—it was a designated flight number for a private charter heading across the northern border.Deveraux wasn't just moving precursors; they were the central distribution hub for an international cartel.I pulled out my phone and took clear, focused pictures of every document on the desk. This was it. This was the federal-level evidence that would bypass the corrupt county sheriff and bring the FBI crashing down on Deveraux Hauling.I was just turning toward the door when a heavy hand grabbed the back of my jacket, slamming me face-first into the filing cabinet.Pain exploded across my cheek. I hit the floor hard, gasping for breath, and looked up into the steel-toe boots of Kaelen, the yard foreman. He was a massive man with a thick beard and eyes as cold as dead neon. In his right hand, he held a heavy maglite flashlight.
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The Grade She Couldn't Forget

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