Chapter 18 #2
We pulled between the containers. The floodlights were totally out. The convoy idled, their engines loud enough to catch over the waves, the wind, and the hum of equipment in the distance.
Alphabet’s voice sharpened. “That’s Dock 22. That’s where they loaded the others two nights ago.”
The truck slowed.
Stopped.
And then—
The rear door of the blackout transport cracked open two inches. Just two. Enough to let someone inside peek out. Not enough for us to see who—or what—was in there.
Lunchbox muttered, “Anyone else getting the feeling this is about to go sideways?”
Voodoo fingers drummed against his thigh. “Sideways, upside down, on fire—pick one.”
I stared at the transport. At the shadow behind that cracked-open door. At the guard pacing with a hand on his belt. At the escort cars boxing the area. At the containers painted with serial numbers Alphabet flagged earlier.
Then I breathed once, deep. “Grace?” I gave her a moment, a soft beep told me she had unmuted
“We’re good,” she murmured. I nodded even if she couldn’t see it. “Going quiet again.” Another beep as she muted on her end.
“We get closer,” I said.
Legend blinked. “Closer? As in—”
“As in we get eyes inside that truck,” I said. “Before they unload whatever they’re hiding.”
Lunchbox’s grin spread slow and feral.
“Been waiting for you to say that.”
I cracked the door.
The night air hit my face—cold, sharp, electric.
“Alphabet,” I murmured, stepping out. “Keep us off the grid.”
“You bet your ass I will,” he said.
The convoy moved. People shifted. Weapons glinted.
And as I stepped forward into the belly of the pier, one thing settled like steel inside me—this was always going to end in blood.
The wind shifted—salt, diesel, metal—and carried just enough sound from the convoy for me to count bodies.
Three by the escort sedans. One pacing at the rear of the transport. Two at the pickup. One at the checkpoint shack.
Six. Not many. But enough to ruin this pier if we made a mistake.
Voodoo slid up beside me, eyes scanning angles. Lunchbox moved ahead like a shadow with teeth. I stayed low, Glock ready, senses tuned. Alphabet’s voice crackled in my ear.
“Eyes on everything. Seven targets, low alert, keep it clean,” he said.
“We go quiet,” I muttered. “No gunfire unless absolutely necessary.”
Lunchbox smirked. “Been waiting to do this.”
Voodoo nodded once.
We moved.
Two at the sedans were leaning against their cars, smoking, careless. Dead men walking. The third stood a few feet away, radio or cell phone in hand like he was waiting for a call.
Lunchbox took the left, I went right, Voodoo covered the center. Shadows sliding across concrete.
Lunchbox reached his guy first—hand clamped over the mouth, a quick twist to the wrist, and the man went down silent. I moved my target next, elbow driving into the back of his skull just enough to make him fold. Voodoo eased the second down with a chokehold before he could react.
All three unconscious before anyone could even think to reach for a gun.
I was on the man pacing behind the transport. Arm across the throat, wrist twisting, and the man crumpled. No noise, no chance to scream.
With hand signals, I sent Lunchbox and Voodoo after the two by the pickup. They moved like a pair of ghosts, siding behind them and taking them down in controlled chokes.
The last one was the man in the reflective vest—eyes sharp enough to ruin everything if he saw us.
Voodoo and Lunchbox actually did rock, paper scissors for the asshole and I rolled my eyes. But Voodoo’s scissors sliced through Lunchbox’s paper. Just as swiftly, Voodoo took out his target.
I tapped a message to Alphabet via the comms. SITREP
Alphabet confirmed. “No alerts. You’re ghosts. Clean sweep so far.”
Seven bodies down. All unconscious.
We regrouped behind the transport, movements smooth, breaths calm. Alphabet’s voice floated in the comms.
“All feeds still black. You’re clear.”
Voodoo stepped up beside me, eyes on the cracked-open rear door. Lunchbox exhaled. “Warm-up’s done.”
I nodded. “Time for the main event.”
Hand on the door, I felt the dark inside exhale at us.
“Eyes up,” I said, voice low steel. “No mistakes.”
We ghosted forward.
Three shadows slipping through darker shadows, silent as we could get on concrete that wanted to echo every damn step. With the escort team down, we just needed to deal with the guards on the transport itself.
Lunchbox tapped my arm once—two guards nearest the truck, one on patrol near the containers, and another lingering by the cab.
Four total.
Doable.
I gestured left. Lunchbox peeled off, melting into the container shadows with the kind of fluidity a man his size shouldn’t have. Voodoo circled right, keeping low. I headed dead center toward the pacing guard.
The man hummed under his breath—nervous energy. Didn’t matter.
His head turned at the wrong moment.
My forearm clamped around his throat, cutting off air and voice. He kicked once, twice—weak. Training, panic, both in the wrong order. I guided him down in total silence, lowering his body until it touched concrete with all the weight of a falling leaf.
One down.
Lunchbox grabbed his target from behind a stack of crates, slammed him into the steel wall just once, and caught him before he hit the floor. Voodoo’s target crumpled without a sound.
Three down.
We waited for the last—the one near the cab—to turn his back.
He did.
Lunchbox was on him before the man realized the world had shifted. A quick chokehold, a soft thump, body tucked under the truck frame.
Four down.
Good.
We moved to the transport.
Up close, the blackout hauler was worse. Taller. Reinforced. The kind of metal that didn’t flex in temperature changes. Something purpose-built for hiding human cargo.
I exchanged a look with Voodoo, then signaled Lunchbox up.
We went to the rear.
Lunchbox eased the latch. It was heavy, secure, recently locked. But nothing we couldn’t handle. The door shifted an inch.
Inside, I heard something—
A stifled sob.
Voodoo’s jaw locked. “People.”
“More kids?” Lunchbox whispered.
“No.” My gut knew before the door swung enough to show us.
I opened it wider.
Rows. Layers. Bodies huddled together.
Women.
Dozens of them.
Young—too young—pale faces washed in the dim red emergency light the transport used to hide its movement. Eastern European features. Some with bruises. Some shaking. All terrified.
Some held each other, whispering. Some stared with hollow, resigned eyes. Some recoiled instinctively at the movement.
One finally spoke in a trembling voice.
“Prosím… neubli?ujte nám.”
Slovak. Czech. Something close.
“Please… don’t hurt us.” Grace translated without me needing to ask.
Voodoo exhaled slowly. “Jesus Christ.”
Lunchbox shoved a hand through his hair, fury shaking in his shoulders. “They were going to unload them. Tonight.”
If we hadn’t found them?
Sold.
Vanished.
Forgotten.
One woman—older, maybe late twenties—pulled a girl behind her, shielding her with her body. She stared at me like I was another monster.
I kept my hands visible, palms up. “We’re here to help,” I said softly, knowing they wouldn’t understand the words but maybe the tone.
The older woman’s breath hitched.
Lunchbox whispered, voice a raw scrape, “Bones… we can’t move this many by ourselves.”
“I know.”
“We need Grace,” Voodoo muttered.
“We can’t bring her into this,” I said. “Not until it’s secure.”
We were about to figure out how the hell to extract thirty terrified women when a crackle sounded from one of the downed guards’ radios.
All three of us froze.
Voices spilled out—flat, efficient, emotionless.
“Timoson, report. The vans never arrived.”
“Status on cargo prep?”
Static.
“Timoson, respond. The sweep team is inbound to clean your mess. ETA nine minutes.”
Lunchbox’s grip tightened on his gun. “Cleanup crew. Not the ‘brooms and mop’ kind, either.”
“No.” My voice came out hard, cold.
This was the kind of squad sent when problems needed to disappear. All of them. Bodies. Evidence. Survivors.
Cargo.
“They’re coming to wipe this whole pier,” Voodoo said.
“And everyone in it,” I finished. “Including them.”
I looked back at the women—dozens of eyes staring at us, trembling, waiting for the next horror.
“Okay,” I exhaled. “We improvise.”
That was how we put Voodoo in the cab to drive the transport with Lunchbox riding shotgun and I set up for the cleanup team.
It was going to be messy, but what the hell.
“I’ve got eyes, Cap,” Alphabet said. “We can do this.”
Yes. Yes we could.