Find out what comes next as the story continues in the following chapter.

The air at Pier 42 was heavy with the smell of rotted wood, diesel fuel, and the metallic tang of the harbor. The fog rolled in from the river, thick and blinding, turning the abandoned warehouses into jagged, hulking silhouettes against the black water. I kept my hand on the handle of the knife I’d tucked into my coat pocket—not because I knew how to use it well, but because the cold weight of the blade was the only thing keeping me grounded.

I hadn't gone to the pier to wait for Oliver. I had gone there because I knew this warehouse was where they stored the "special cargo." If I could find the manifests, if I could find the records of who they were moving and where, I would have the leverage to bring the entire Syndicate down.

The door to the warehouse was rusted shut, but I found the small, side maintenance entrance I’d scouted on the satellite maps. It opened with a groan that seemed to echo for miles.

I stepped inside. The warehouse was cavernous, filled with stacks of shipping containers that created a concrete maze. My heart pounded against my ribs—an irregular, frantic rhythm that felt entirely too loud in the oppressive silence.

I moved forward, navigating by the faint glow of my phone’s flashlight. I found a small office container in the center of the floor. Inside, the desk was cluttered with logbooks and a high-end, secure workstation.

I sat down and plugged in the red thumb drive. Files cascaded down the screen: “OPERATIONS - WINTER 2026,” “ASSET ALLOCATION,” “LOGISTICS FLOW.”

I opened “ASSET ALLOCATION.”

My breath hitched. It was a list of names, pictures, and profiles of women. Women who looked like me. Women with high credit scores, no family connections, and professional careers that allowed them to accumulate assets—assets the Syndicate could liquidate.

The last name on the list was “Subject: Sarah Jenkins. Location: Seattle. Status: Active. Liquidation scheduled: December 26.”

I was staring at the hit list.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

I froze. I didn't turn around. I didn't reach for the knife. I just kept my eyes fixed on the screen, my finger hovering over the “DELETE ALL” button.

"You were never supposed to make it to the pier, Maya," a voice said. It was Oliver. He stepped into the light of the computer screen, his face twisted in a look of mild annoyance, like a child who had been forced to clean up a spill.

"You were never supposed to be on my side, Oliver," I replied, my voice steady.

"I was never on anyone's side. I'm a liquidator. My job is to ensure the assets remain stable until they can be harvested." He pulled a small, silenced pistol from his coat. "Alex is upset. Rachel is furious. They wanted to handle this personally, but I convinced them that a clean disposal was better for the portfolio."

"If you kill me, you lose the ledger," I said. "I left it in a locker in Grand Central. If I don't check in every twelve hours, the key goes to the Feds."

It was a lie, of course. The ledger was in my bag, and I was about to drop it into the harbor, but I needed to keep him talking.

Oliver laughed. "The Feds? Maya, look at the files again. Who do you think funds the Feds? The Syndicate has been running the logistics of this country since the port expansion in the late nineties. You're fighting a storm with a paper fan."

He stepped closer, the muzzle of the gun pointing directly at my chest. "Give me the thumb drive, and I’ll make it quick. No car accidents, no messy disappearances. Just a tragic overdose."

I stood up, my back to the wall. I looked at the computer screen, then at the shipping containers stacked behind him.

"What if I told you I already sent the files?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.

Oliver’s eyes flickered. "Sent them to who?"

"To everyone," I lied again. "Every journalist, every blog, every public forum. It’s automated. In thirty seconds, the truth about Sterling Logistics and the Syndicate is going to be the biggest news story in the world."

He didn't wait. He lunged at the workstation, his gun lowered for a split second as he reached for the keyboard.

I didn't reach for the knife. I reached for the heavy, industrial-sized bottle of cleaning solvent sitting on the corner of the desk and hurled it directly into his face.

He roared in pain, blinded and gagging. I didn't wait to see if he’d fall. I bolted past him, sprinting into the maze of shipping containers.

I heard a gunshot, the sound muffled and wet as the bullet punched through a crate of clothes near my head. I didn't stop. I ran, my heart screaming, the maze of containers shifting and changing in the darkness.

I had to reach the water. I had to reach the boats.

If I could reach the harbor police, if I could reach someone—anyone—who wasn't part of the system, maybe I had a chance.

I ducked behind a stack of containers and peered back. Oliver was stumbling after me, his gun raised, his eyes streaming with tears from the solvent.

I took the thumb drive out of my pocket and dropped it into a heavy, discarded industrial pipe. Then I grabbed the ledger.