A Night of Questions
9
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LENA'S POV
The tension in the air is thick as we step out of the clinic and into the cool night. The salty tang of the ocean mingles with the faint metallic scent of rain-soaked pavement. Overhead, the moon hangs low, veiled by shifting clouds that cast rippling shadows across the docks.
“We can’t wait until the end of the week,” I say, my voice firm but quiet. My boots scrape against the wet pavement as I quicken my pace, the weight of Porter’s ultimatum pressing down on me.
Noah walks beside me, his jaw tight and his gaze fixed straight ahead. The streetlamp’s glow outlines the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, I’m struck by how effortlessly he seems to carry the weight of everything we’re up against.
“I know,” he replies, his voice low and edged with frustration. “But breaking into restricted areas isn’t exactly my usual MO.”
I stop short, turning to face him. “Since when do you play it safe? You bulldozed your way into this town, remember? Or does your courage stop when things get personal?”
His eyes narrow, the challenge in my tone landing squarely. “This isn’t about courage,” he says evenly, stepping closer. The space between us shrinks, charged with something I can’t quite name. “This is about not getting caught before we have something to show for it.”
“And we won’t get caught,” I counter, crossing my arms. “But sitting around waiting isn’t an option. The longer we hesitate, the more time they have to cover their tracks.”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze searches mine, his sharp blue eyes shadowed with something I can’t decipher. Finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re relentless, you know that?” he mutters, but there’s no venom in his words.
I don’t respond right away, but his reluctant agreement sparks a small flame of determination in me. He’s beginning to see that this isn’t just about my grandmother’s legacy or the clinic—it’s about making sure people like Reyes can’t keep operating in the shadows.
“Let’s start with the shipping logs,” I suggest, softening my tone just enough to ease the tension between us. “If we can get a look at the records for incoming and outgoing shipments, we might be able to figure out what they’re moving—and where it’s going.”
Noah nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we do it carefully.”
I allow myself a small smile, though the knot of anxiety in my stomach doesn’t ease. “Carefully,” I agree, though I know there’s nothing cautious about what we’re about to do.
We move deeper into the docks, the towering stacks of shipping containers creating an ominous maze of rusted steel. The sound of the waves crashing against the harbor echoes through the stillness, accompanied by the faint creak of ropes and the hum of machinery in the distance.
As we approach the port office, a single light flickers above the entrance, casting a pale glow over the cracked asphalt. Noah reaches for the door handle but stops short, his head tilting slightly as he listens.
“What is it?” I whisper, my pulse quickening.
“Thought I heard something,” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s almost lost in the wind.
I hold my breath, straining to hear. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant calls of seagulls. Then, faintly, the sound of footsteps crunches against gravel.
Noah grabs my wrist, pulling me behind a stack of crates just as the light above the office door flickers off. My heart pounds as the footsteps grow louder, each step deliberate and measured.
We crouch in the shadows, the cold metal of the crates pressing against my back. Noah’s hand lingers on my arm, his grip steady but protective. The heat of his presence is a stark contrast to the chill in the air, and for a moment, it’s the only thing keeping my fear at bay.
The footsteps stop just beyond our hiding spot. My breath catches, and I glance at Noah. His expression is sharp, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Whoever it is lingers for a moment longer before turning and walking away. The sound of their steps fades into the distance, leaving us alone with the weight of what just happened.
“Close call,” Noah mutters, his voice taut.
“Too close,” I reply, my heart still racing.
We wait a beat longer before moving, slipping into the shadows as we make our way to the side of the office. The windows are dark, and the door is locked, but Noah pulls a small toolkit from his pocket, his movements swift and precise.
“Should I be worried about how good you are at this?” I whisper, trying to lighten the tension.
He shoots me a wry glance. “Let’s just say I’ve learned a few things over the years.”
The lock clicks open, and we step inside, closing the door softly behind us. The room smells of mildew and stale coffee, the faint glow of a computer screen casting eerie shadows across the walls.
Noah moves to the desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he pulls up the shipping logs. I stand beside him, scanning the entries as they appear on the screen.
“There,” I say, pointing to a series of shipments marked with vague descriptions: ‘Medical Supplies,’ ‘Special Cargo,’ and ‘Confidential.’
“Bingo,” Noah mutters, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “Let’s see where these lead.”
The office is a claustrophobic mess of outdated equipment and stained paper coffee cups, the kind of place that seems forgotten by time. But Noah works with precision, his fingers tapping out commands on the keyboard as he scrolls through pages of shipping data. The soft glow of the monitor illuminates his features, sharpening the angles of his face and casting shadows that make him look even more intense.
I lean over his shoulder, my breath hitching when the vague descriptions of shipments scroll past: Medical Supplies. Confidential. Special Cargo. Each entry feels like a puzzle piece sliding into place, but the picture it forms is still incomplete.
“What do we do with this?” I ask, my voice low to match the tension in the room.
Noah doesn’t answer right away, his eyes fixed on the screen. His focus is magnetic, and for a moment, I’m distracted by the sheer intensity of him—by the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips press into a thoughtful line. When he finally speaks, his voice is firm and calm.
“We need to see what’s inside those shipments,” he says.
I blink at him. “And how exactly do you propose we do that? They’re not going to let us waltz into the warehouse and start snooping around.”
His lips twitch, a hint of a smirk breaking through. “No, they’re not. Which is why we’re not going to ask for permission.”
A knot of apprehension twists in my stomach, but it’s outweighed by the steady burn of determination. I don’t know when exactly I crossed the line from caution to recklessness, but there’s no turning back now.
“You’ve done this before,” I say, my tone accusing but laced with curiosity.
He looks up at me, a ghost of something unreadable flickering across his face. “Not exactly,” he says. “But I’ve been in situations where rules had to be bent. This isn’t any different.”
It feels different. But I don’t say that. Instead, I cross my arms and nod toward the screen. “What’s the plan?”
He pulls up a map of the docks, highlighting a cluster of warehouses on the far side of the port. “These three buildings have the most activity tied to those shipments. If we can get into one of them, we might find what we need to make the connection.”
“And by ‘get into,’ you mean break in,” I say, arching a brow.
Noah’s smirk returns, this time with a hint of mischief. “I prefer the term ‘unauthorized entry.’”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, the sound foreign in the tension-filled room. “You really are something else,” I mutter, shaking my head.
He leans back slightly, his eyes locking onto mine. “Is that a compliment?”
“Don’t push your luck,” I reply, though my tone is more playful than I intend.
The air between us shifts, the charged energy from earlier sparking to life again. For a moment, I forget where we are—forget about the danger waiting just outside the door. It’s just Noah and me, caught in a moment that feels heavier than it should.
I clear my throat, breaking the spell. “So, how do we do this without getting caught?”
Noah turns back to the map, his voice steadier now. “We go in late, after the shift change. Most of the guards will be gone, and the ones who stay behind won’t be expecting anyone. We stick to the shadows, move quickly, and get out before anyone knows we’re there.”
“And if we run into trouble?”
His expression hardens, his jaw tightening. “We won’t.”
It’s not the most comforting answer, but it’s enough to quell the flicker of doubt in my chest. I nod, determination settling over me like armor. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
Noah logs off the computer, erasing any trace of our presence before we slip back out into the night. The cold air bites at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning in my chest. We’re one step closer to the truth, and I’ll be damned if I let anything—or anyone—stop us now.
The storm brews long before the first raindrop falls, the air heavy with a humid stillness that clings to my skin as we make our way to the docks. Overhead, the sky churns in muted shades of gray and black, the clouds rolling like restless waves. Each step I take feels like it carries the weight of every choice that led me here.
Noah walks beside me, his silence louder than the distant rumble of thunder. There’s something unyielding about the way he moves—shoulders squared, jaw tight, his eyes fixed ahead as though nothing could break his focus. And yet, even in the tension, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. It’s as if no matter what we’re walking into, I won’t be walking into it alone.
As we near the warehouse, the drizzle starts, light at first but gaining momentum with each passing second until it soaks through my clothes. The cold seeps into my skin, and I can feel the weight of my damp hair sticking to my neck. I glance at Noah, whose jacket clings to his broad frame, darkened by the rain. His gaze shifts to meet mine, and for a fleeting moment, the tension in my chest loosens.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, nearly lost beneath the steady rhythm of raindrops against the asphalt.
“Yeah,” I reply, though the tremor in my voice betrays me.
His lips press into a line, and without a word, he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders. The gesture catches me off guard, a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the fabric or the weather. I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off with a look.
“Just take it,” he says softly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I nod, clutching the jacket around me. His scent lingers on the fabric—clean, with a hint of cedar and rain. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is, and I hate how much I notice. This isn’t the time for distractions, and yet my thoughts keep circling back to him.
We approach the chain-link fence that surrounds the warehouse, its jagged edges glinting faintly in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp. The rain slicks the metal, making it shine like the surface of a black mirror. Noah pulls a set of wire cutters from his bag, his movements swift and efficient as he clips a clean opening.
“Stay close,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
I follow him through the gap, my heart pounding against my ribs. The storm has grown more insistent now, the rain lashing against the corrugated metal walls of the warehouse. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the skeletal outlines of cranes and shipping containers that loom like giants in the dark.
The warehouse looms ahead, its exterior a blend of rust and peeling paint. A single security light casts a faint glow over the entrance, but the shadows seem to stretch endlessly beyond it. Noah signals for me to stay low as we approach, his body a solid, steady presence beside mine. The sound of our footsteps is swallowed by the rain, but the pounding of my heart feels deafening.
At the door, Noah produces a lockpick from his pocket. He works quickly, his fingers steady despite the tension that hangs thick in the air. My breath catches as the lock clicks open, and he pushes the door inward, revealing the dimly lit interior.
The air inside is cooler, tinged with the metallic tang of damp steel and something else—something chemical. Rows of crates stretch into the shadows, their labels obscured by grime and age. My pulse quickens as I step inside, the enormity of what we might find pressing down on me like a weight.
Noah pulls a flashlight from his bag, the beam cutting through the darkness as it dances across the stacked crates. He moves with purpose, his every step measured and deliberate. I trail behind him, my eyes scanning the space for any sign of movement.
“This way,” he whispers, nodding toward a cluster of crates in the corner.
We reach the first stack, and Noah sets the flashlight down, its beam angling upward to illuminate the space. He pulls a crowbar from his bag and wedges it beneath the lid of one of the crates, the metal groaning in protest before giving way.
Inside, rows of unmarked bottles gleam under the light, their contents hidden behind dark glass. My stomach churns as Noah picks one up, his jaw tightening as he turns it in his hands.
“Pharmaceuticals,” he mutters, his voice laced with disgust. “But these labels… they’re counterfeit.”
I swallow hard, my mind racing. “So, this is it? This is what Reyes is moving through the port?”
Noah nods, his expression dark. “And this is just the beginning. If we dig deeper, I’m sure we’ll find more.”
Before I can respond, the sound of footsteps echoes faintly through the warehouse, and my breath catches in my throat. Noah’s hand finds mine, pulling me into the shadows behind a stack of crates. The warmth of his grip is a stark contrast to the cold metal at my back, and for a moment, the fear recedes, replaced by the steady rhythm of his presence beside me.
The footsteps grow louder, closer, and my pulse races as I strain to see through the darkness. A figure moves past, silhouetted against the faint glow of the security light outside. They pause for a moment, their head turning as if listening, before continuing on.
Noah squeezes my hand, his grip a silent reassurance. When the footsteps fade, he releases me, his eyes meeting mine in the dim light.
“We need to get out of here,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Now.”
I nod, my breath shaky as I follow him back toward the entrance. My heart pounds with every step, the weight of what we’ve uncovered settling heavily in my chest.
By the time we slip back into the rain-soaked night, my thoughts are a whirlwind of fear, determination, and something else—something that feels dangerously close to hope. For the first time, we have proof. And with it, the power to fight back.