Chapter 18 – Dario
I crouch low behind a rusted shipping container in the Chicago yard. Pale blue light creeps over the stacked metal crates, dawn breaking cold and thin across the horizon.
Wind whistles low between the rows, biting at my face.
Viviana’s ahead, perched in a blind spot near the front gate. She’s dressed like a dock clerk—gray jacket, clipboard in hand, cap pulled low over her dark hair.
We move like ghosts, no noise, just purpose. I flash two fingers—move up—and she nods, sharp and quick, her eyes catching mine for a beat.
A guard slouches near the target crate, cigarette dangling from his lips. His boots scuff the gravel, careless, like he’s bored out of his skull.
I circle wide, keeping my steps light on the damp ground. The pack presses against my ribs, loaded with enough juice to gut Caldera’s edge.
Viviana steps into view, clipboard slipping from her hands. Papers scatter, and she stammers, “You want to check the manifest yourself? I’ve got it logged—wrong lot number. Just a second…”
The guard leans in, grunting as he bends to grab a sheet. She’s not just my lookout—she’s my anchor, my eyes in this dark maze.
I slip behind the crate, my breath shallow but steady. The lock’s rusted, stubborn—I jam the pick in, twist hard, and it clicks open with a soft snap.
Inside, tech hums low—stacked devices, sleek and black, humming. My hands don’t shake as I kneel, planting the first charge near the power cores.
The second goes under the pallet base, tucked snug against the wood. If this works, Caldera loses their teeth—their toys, their grip.
I glance up, catch Viviana’s eyes flicking to me. Her signal cuts through—hurry—and I nod, sealing the crate shut fast.
She’s still talking, voice faint but smooth. “It’s probably just a mix-up—let me double-check the log.”
The guard mutters something, turning his back to me. I slide out, heart pounding, and signal her—done—with a quick tap to my chest.
She straightens, gathering the papers, keeping him hooked. I melt back into the shadows, moving toward the stack where we’ll regroup.
Overhead lights buzz, casting yellow streaks across the yard. A gull cries out somewhere distant, and a truck engine rumbles beyond the fence.
I keep low, weaving between crates, my pulse steady but fast. She’s good—too good—and it’s keeping us alive right now.
The cold bites deeper as I near our spot. My fingers flex inside my gloves, itching to move, to finish this.
Viviana’s voice fades behind me, the guard still distracted. I stop behind a dented blue container, crouching, waiting for her.
She appears a minute later, stepping quick and quiet. Her cap’s tilted back now, green eyes sharp under the brim.
“Clean?” she asks, voice low, clipboard tucked under her arm.
“Clean,” I say, nodding. “Charges set.”
She exhales, short and tight. “He didn’t suspect anything.”
I grin, quick and thin. “You’re a natural.”
Her lips twitch, just a flash. “Had a good teacher.”
I check my watch—ten minutes until we trigger it. Plenty of time to get clear, but not enough to relax.
She adjusts her jacket, papers rustling. “How much damage?”
“Enough,” I say, patting the pack. “This tech’s their backbone—without it, they’re scrambling.”
She nods, eyes scanning the yard. “Then we’re one step ahead.”
“Always,” I say, standing straighter. My coat shifts, the charges secure underneath.
The guard’s still near the crate, pacing now, cigarette gone. He’s lazy, but he’s not blind—Viviana’s got him tied up good.
I lean against the container, watching her. She’s steady, focused, but there’s a fire in her I can’t miss.
“Camila’d be proud,” I say, voice low. “You’re hitting them where it hurts.”
She looks at me, sharp and quick. “This isn’t just for her.”
“I know,” I say, meeting her gaze. “It’s for us too.”
Her fingers tighten on the clipboard. “And them—every bastard who thinks they own this city.”
I nod, feeling that truth sink in. Caldera’s been a shadow too long—now we’re cutting into it.
The wind picks up, rattling a loose panel nearby. I glance around, instincts sharp, but the yard’s still ours.
Viviana steps closer, voice dropping. “You sure about the charges?”
“Dead sure,” I say, tapping my chest again. “Rigged them myself—power cores first, then the base.”
She nods, trusting me, and it hits me hard. She’s not the florist anymore—she’s a weapon, and I made her one.
I push off the container, ready to move. “We hold position until it’s time.”
She follows, staying low, her boots quiet on the gravel. “And if they spot us?”
“They won’t,” I say, voice firm. “Not with you running point.”
Her eyes flash, fierce and bright. “Damn right.”
We settle behind the stack, out of sight. The guard’s voice drifts over, grumbling about paperwork, still clueless.
I check the yard again—rows of crates, shadows stretching long. A truck rolls past the fence, headlights cutting through the fog.
My breath is much colder now, freeze seeping into my bones. Viviana’s close, her shoulder brushing mine, steadying me.
She’s my anchor, yeah, but more than that. If this fails, we vanish tonight—no second chances.
I glance at her, catch her watching the guard. Her focus is steel, and it pulls me tighter to her.
“You’re too good at this,” I say again, softer. “Scary good.”
She looks at me, lips curving just enough. “Had to be.”
I nod, pride mixing with the strain in my chest. She’s not just surviving—she’s fighting, and I’m right there with her.
The guard kicks a rock, muttering to himself. Viviana’s hand brushes mine, quick and light, a signal of her own.
“Ready?” she asks, voice barely audible.
“Always,” I say, checking the watch again—eight minutes left.
She shifts, clipboard still in hand. “He’s moving—stay sharp.”
I watch him pace, cigarette replaced with a radio now. My gut tightens, but I keep my hands steady.
“He’s calling it in,” I say, voice low. “Doesn’t matter—too late for him.”
She nods, eyes locked on the crate. “We’ve got this.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling the edge creep in. “We do.”
The wind howls louder, tugging at my coat. I adjust the pack, making sure it’s secure.
Viviana’s breathing hard beside me, cold getting to her. She’s calm, but I see the fire underneath—same as mine.
I lean closer, voice dropping. “Two minutes, we shift—get to the trigger spot.”
“Got it,” she says, shifting her weight. “Lead the way.”
I nod, ready to move, but I watch her first. She’s steady, fierce, and it’s more than I expected.
The guard turns, radio crackling in his hand. Viviana’s eyes flick to me again—hurry—and I nod back.
I slip past the container, keeping low, my breath shallow. She’s right behind me, my anchor in this, and I’m not letting her down.
The fence groans as I cut the last tie. It's old chain-link, warped and rusted along the bottom, just enough to let us slip through. The pulse device is already in place—tucked inside a gutted transport crate marked with the wrong seal. One push of the detonator, and Corradino’s whole drop goes dead. Not destroyed—just dead enough to send a message.
Viviana crouches near the shadows, eyes on the far guard tower. She looks wired. Precise. She’s learned how to move like this—shoulders loose, feet silent. Dangerous.
“Last one,” I whisper, snapping the casing shut around the EMP core. The device hums quietly under the casing, like a coiled storm waiting to lash out. “Get ready to run.”
She nods once and adjusts her grip on the utility knife. Not the florist scissors tonight. This isn’t symbolic. It’s surgical.
I take one step back and spot movement on the other end of the lot.
A second guard. Not part of the usual rotation. Younger. Taller. Rifle strapped wrong across his back.
He rounds the crate just as I lift my head. His eyes meet mine. And he knows. He inhales, throat working—
But Viviana is already in motion.
She’s fast. Faster than I’ve ever seen her.
One hand over his mouth. The other arcs through the shadows like a silver streak—and catches him across the throat.
No hesitation. No tremble in her hand.
The guard jerks, makes a sound that never quite escapes. Blood sprays in a hot line across the concrete, catching her boots, her leg, her wrist. She steps back and lets him drop.
He twitches. Twice. Then nothing.
She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just wipes the blade on his sleeve and tucks it back into her coat.
I stare—not in shock, not exactly.
In recognition.
And she doesn’t wait for me to comment. She looks right at me—eyes steady, breath controlled—and says, “He would’ve called backup.”
The only words she needs.
I nod. “We move.”
We run. No dramatics. No sprinting. Just fast enough to vanish before the next shift loops the perimeter.
I trigger the detonation from the switch clipped inside my jacket. There’s no fireball. Just a pulse—low, deep, humming like thunder buried in the ground. The crates won’t combust, but every circuit inside them will rot in seconds. The shipment’s worthless now.
By the time anyone figures it out, we’ll be gone.
We scale the back fence, hop down near the freight lot, and loop through alleyways until we reach the abandoned warehouse safehouse. No alarms. No chase. But my heart still races—not from the mission.
From what I saw on her face.
Viviana stands on the rooftop now, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands stained red. She hasn’t said a word since the kill. She hasn’t needed to.
She reaches into her coat pocket, pulls out a rag, and starts wiping down the utility knife again.
I walk over, slow. Careful.
“You didn’t flinch,” I say.
She pauses mid-wipe. “He would’ve called backup.”
“I know.”
Her voice is quiet, but not fragile. It’s clean. Controlled. Cold in a way that makes my stomach twist.
She meets my eyes. “We don’t get to hesitate anymore.”
I look at her hands. The blade. The curve of her knuckles still slick with blood that isn’t hers.
This wasn’t heat-of-the-moment. This wasn’t survival.
This was a choice.
A clean, final one.
I step back, not because I’m afraid of her. But because I know what it means when a person stops hesitating.
She’s crossed it. The line I told myself I’d never let her touch.
And she didn’t even ask me to stop her.