Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
LUNCHBOX
The second Bones gave the nod, we started moving. Not running—running gets you clocked. Just a steady, unbothered walk through the steel canyons of Pier C, the kind of pace every dock worker here adopted once they realized time was a suggestion and forklift drivers were gods.
I had point, mostly because people tended to step out of my way without realizing they’d done it. For Bones, they crossed the street, but for me, they just shifted aside and accepted my easy smiles without a second thought.
The air tasted like diesel, old salt, and the coppery edge of trouble. Goblin padded at Grace’s heel behind me, his little claws clicking a warning to anyone who got within sniffing distance.
Alphabet’s voice came through the comms, sharp and focused. “Container is C7–B block. Southwest corner tower. Third row from the bottom.”
“Copy,” I murmured, dodging a forklift with a wave I didn’t mean. “Any cameras we gotta duck?”
“I would have said two. Both old. Both dumb. But they annoyed me, so you’re good.”
Good. I liked being good.
Voodoo stayed near Grace, not touching her, but hovering with what had become our brand of casual protectiveness that meant he’d murder someone with a smile if the situation called for it. Bones watched everything—angles, shadows, the rhythm of the port like he could hear danger breathing.
I kept eyes ahead. My job wasn’t to worry. It was to move.
And crack skulls when necessary.
We slipped between two container stacks, the air cooler in the shade. I traced the faded stenciling on the metal as we passed—serial numbers, destination codes, layers of history that meant nothing and everything.
“Alphabet,” I muttered, “we aiming for cargo or cover?”
“The former,” he said. “Container’s sealed, but someone logged manual overrides on the locking mechanism. Old-school. Not electronic.”
Voodoo whistled low. “That’s deliberate.”
Bones grunted, which for Bones meant he agreed, understood, and probably hated the implications.
Grace’s voice came small but steady. “Why hide something in a container but not digitally?”
“Because the thing you're hiding,” I said over my shoulder, “isn’t supposed to exist at all.”
Her silence tightened my grip on the crowbar strapped to my pack.
We rounded the last bend into the southwest corner. Fewer workers here. Fewer forklifts. Just a quiet stretch of metal and stacked shadows.
Then I saw it. C7–B. Third row. First level.
Locked with a brand-new, polished steel mechanism that didn’t match the rust-eaten hardware around it.
Bones stopped beside me. Voodoo exhaled sharply behind him.
Grace whispered, “That’s it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the one pretending real hard to be normal.”
Bones gave me a nod—go.
I stepped forward, dropping my pack and pulling the crowbar free. The lock wasn’t chained. It was pinned. Heavy hardware, but not cartel-style. More… government surplus? Weird.
“Alphabet,” I said, wedging the bar under the latch. “You seeing this?”
“Yep. And I hate it.”
“Join the club.”
The first pin popped with a metallic snap. The second resisted. I leaned my weight into it—felt the metal bite back—then gave it a sharp jerk.
Snap.
Silence.
Everyone stilled.
Bones nodded at me. “Open it.”
I hooked the crowbar under the door lip and heaved.
The metal groaned, heavy and reluctant, like something inside didn’t want to be seen. Diesel air rushed out, stale and old.
I lifted the door high enough for Bones to duck under, then for Grace, then Voodoo.
I went last.
And the second my boots hit the steel floor inside, I knew this wasn’t cargo storage.
Too clean. Too quiet. Too intentional.
There were crates—two. A cot. A metal water jug. And far in the corner, a small figure curled into themselves like they’d made the shape permanent.
Grace gasped, a sharp inhale she couldn’t help.
The figure flinched.
Bones lifted a hand—halt—but I was already stepping forward. Soft. Slow. Not the “Lunchbox kicking doors” slow—this was the “don’t scare the wounded animal” slow.
The kid—because that’s what they were, no more than maybe twelve—lifted their head an inch. Eyes hollow. Skin gray. Fear baked so deep it looked like bone.
Voodoo whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Grace moved next to me, voice soft enough to melt iron. “Hi. Hey. It’s okay. We’re here to help.”
The kid blinked, disoriented. Their voice cracked out in Spanish, brittle and tiny. “?Son… de ellos?” Are you… with them?
“No,” Grace said softly, crouching and lowering herself without even needing to be urged. Her tiny stature already made her far less of a threat. “Nosotros somos los que paramos a gente así, ?ves?”
We’re the one who stop people like them.
The kid’s chin trembled.
Before I knew what I was doing, I shrugged off my jacket and held it out. “You cold, buddy?”
They stared at it. At me. Then reached with fingers shaking so hard it hurt to watch.
Grace’s breath hitched behind me—a tiny, pained sound.
Bones looked at the rest of us. Something hard settled in his posture, carved in iron.
“This ends now,” he said.
Not a suggestion. Not a plan. A promise.
The kind we didn’t break.
The kid hauled the jacket around their shoulders like it weighed as much as they did. It swallowed them whole, sleeves dangling past their hands, but they clutched the fabric like armor. Like if they let go, someone would take it—and them—away.
Grace eased closer, slow and gentle, Goblin settling against her leg like he’d decided the kid was under his jurisdiction now.
“?Cómo te llamas?” she asked.
The kid swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing too sharply for someone that small. “Nico,” he whispered.
Nico. Jesus.
Grace’s eyes softened in a way that made something in my chest twist. She crouched lower, letting him see her face properly. She’d taken off her sunglasses without even thinking about it—probably to look less like a threat, even though she was the least threatening thing in this steel tomb.
“Hola, Nico,” she said gently. “?Estás herido? ?Te duele algo?” Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?
He shook his head too fast to be true. Kids lied about pain like adults lied about guilt—instinctively, hopelessly, thinking it protected them.
I knelt beside Grace, keeping my hands visible. “Hey,” I said softly, “we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? You’re safe now.”
Nico’s eyes darted to the crates, then to the sealed door, then back at Grace. Terror flickered under his ribs like a trapped animal.
Bones stepped closer—slow, controlled—his voice low. “We need to know if he’s alone in here.”
Right. The million-dollar question.
Grace nodded once and shifted her weight so she could face Nico squarely. Her hand hovered, not touching him, just close enough he could take it if he wanted to.
“Nico,” she murmured, “?hay más ninos aquí? ?Más personas?” Are there more children here? More people?
Nico’s fingers tightened around the jacket so hard the knuckles went white. His breath hitched in a tiny sound that broke like glass.
For a second, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he whispered, voice trembling, “Dos más. En… en otros contenedores.” Two more. In… in other containers.
Grace inhaled sharply then she translated, but she didn’t let it show on her face. She kept steady, grounding him. “?Sabes dónde?” Do you know where?
He nodded. A fast, frightened motion. He pointed—weakly—toward the far end of the stack outside.
Bones’ eyes went flat and lethal. “Voodoo. Mark the direction. Alphabet—start scanning container logs within that grid. We’re finding them. Grace—let him know.”
“Already on it,” Alphabet said. His voice had lost every trace of humor. “And Lunchbox… you’re gonna be pissed.”
I already was.
“Nico,” she said softly, “vamos a sacar a tus amigos también, ?sí?” We’re going to get your friends out too, okay?
Nico blinked hard, tears threatening but clinging to the edges. Then he whispered, “Por favor… rápido.” Please… fast.
That did it.
Whatever fragile thread of restraint I had snapped clean.
Grace reached out, finally letting her hand rest lightly on Nico’s arm. He flinched—then melted into the contact like he’d been starving for it. Goblin shifted closer, nose bumping Nico’s knee gently, and the kid's fingers disappeared into the dog’s fur like he needed something alive to hold onto.
“All right,” Bones said, his voice steel-wrapped. “Here’s the plan.”
He pointed at Voodoo. “You stay with Grace and Nico. Keep them hidden. No one comes near that door.”
Voodoo nodded once, jaw locked.
“Lunchbox,” Bones said, turning to me, “you’re with me.”
My knuckles cracked on instinct. “Good. I need to hit something.”
Bones didn’t smile—not really—but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You will.”
Grace looked up at us, eyes shining with fury and fear and something else—determination sharpened to a blade.
“Just bring them back,” she said quietly. “All of them.”
“We will,” I promised. No hesitation. No uncertainty.
Because this wasn’t a mission anymore. This wasn’t recon, or intel gathering, or even payback.
This was extraction.
This was rescue.
Bones moved to the door. I followed, crowbar back in hand, blood humming like a live wire.
Behind me, Grace’s voice drifted soft, comforting, protective. “Nico, carino… estás a salvo ahora. Nos tienes a nosotros.” You’re safe now. You have us.
For the first time since we found him, the kid’s breathing eased. Bones jerked his chin toward the container wall, silent command to get moving. Time to tear this port apart. Because there were two more kids out there. God help anyone standing between us and them.
He pushed out of the container first, all shadows and lethal calm. I followed, crowbar in hand, the metal still vibrating like it wanted another fight. The air outside hit colder, sharper. The stacked steel walls made it feel like we’d stepped out of a tomb and straight into another.
Bones didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. I fell into stride beside him, matching his angle, pacing low and fast through the narrow corridor between container towers.
“Alphabet,” he murmured, “give us the nearest likely matches on Nico’s direction.”
“I’m on it,” Alphabet said. “There are sixteen containers in that line with manual overrides like the one you just popped. But only three had recent access pings.”
“Mark the closest.”
A faint waypoint pinged in my ear. Ten o’clock. Thirty yards.
Perfect distance for trouble.
We reached the mouth of the next lane—a long stretch shadowed between rows of blue containers. Bones raised a hand, one finger tapping downward.
Hold.
I froze.
Because down the lane, half-hidden by the steel shadows, a silhouette leaned against a container corner—too still to be a worker, too aware to be anything except a problem.
Bones jerked his chin left. I angled right.
We approached like closing jaws.
The guy didn’t see us at first—he was staring toward the container we’d just come from, shoulders tight, hand twitching toward his waistband every few seconds. Watching. Waiting.
Looking for us.
Looking for Nico.
Rage crawled up my spine.
Bones was five feet from him when the guy finally sensed movement. He spun—
Too slow.
Bones slammed him against the container harder than strictly necessary, one forearm pinning his throat, the other ripping a pistol from the bastard’s belt and tossing it aside like a piece of trash.
I grabbed the front of his jacket before he could drop to the ground, hauling him upright. “Bad day to be working for kidnappers, amigo.”
He spit at me.
It hit my chest.
I smiled—the kind of smile that used to scare my old CO. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”
“Lunchbox,” Bones warned quietly.
Right. We didn’t have time for dental rearrangement.
I twisted the guy’s arm behind him, hard enough to make him gasp. Bones leaned in close.
“Where are they moving the children?”
His breathing hitched, panic flashing across his face, but he clamped his mouth shut in defiance.
Bones didn’t hesitate. His knee jammed into the guy’s thigh, dead center on the nerve bundle. Not enough to break anything.
Just enough to convince him Bones had a map to all the places he could break.
The hostile choked, sagging in my grip.
“I don’t know,” he spat, voice cracking. “They—they were supposed to be here. They were here this morning.”
Bones’s eyes narrowed. “Past tense.”
I shoved him backwards into the container, letting the steel ring. “When did they move them?”
“Just—just before you showed up.”
Bones leaned forward, voice dropping into a register that could freeze blood. “How?”
“Vans,” the man whispered, voice shaking. “Two white vans. No plates.”
Bones released him. I did not. “Where were they heading?”
But he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Before I could argue with physics and drag answers out of him—
Alphabet’s voice cut through sharply. “I’ve got something.”
Bones spun toward the open lane. “Talk.”
“I’m pulling traffic cam access along the perimeter. Two white panel vans exited the north checkpoint seven minutes ago.” So he’d meant before we found Nico. Prick.
My grip tightened on the hostile’s jacket. “Direction?”
“Eastbound. Toward the 110. They’re already off port property.”
That meant they were moving fast.
And we were behind.
Bones took a slow breath—the kind that meant someone was about to die—and then spoke, calm as a blade in deep water. Checking for hidden compartments or false walls, he walked the container in a swift sweep.
“Lunchbox. Secure him.”
My smile widened. “Gladly.”
The guy’s eyes went wide. Rightly so.
Bones didn’t wait—he started moving back toward Grace and Nico with that long, predator stride.
Alphabet spoke again, urgency sharpening. “Guys… if they’re on the 110, they’re heading toward the city. Sarmiento’s people don’t move cargo like that unless they’re spooked.”
“They’re spooked,” I muttered, shoving the hostile face-first against the steel and cuffing him with zip ties. “We rattled them.”
Bones answered, voice dark. “Good. Because we’re not done.”
I grabbed the hostile by the back of his collar and started dragging him toward the others. We needed answers and I was in the perfect mood to get some.