Page 82

Zasha
The air in Balboa sticks to your skin. It’s dense, heavy, and smothering.
I step out of the blacked-out SUV, my boots hitting the dock with a soft thud. The men nearby fall silent as soon as they see me—some nod, while most don’t move at all. They know better than to speak unless I ask them to.
It’s late, but the port’s still humming. Cranes clank overhead. Ships groan against the tide. Lights flicker against the dark water, illuminating stacks of containers taller than buildings.
I scan the shadows. I can smell tension in the air. It’s not just the humidity or the salt—it’s something else. Something off.
“We’ve got word out of D.C.,” one of our lieutenants mutters as he approaches, tablet in hand. “Somebody tipped off the feds. They think it’s arms.”
I grunt. “It’s pharmaceuticals and grain this time.”
These fools can’t even get their information right.
He hesitates. “Still high value.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, jaw tight. “And the bastards can’t even be wrong properly.”
The shipment cannot be rerouted. Not when it is this far into the chain. It is already halfway in and scheduled to arrive at the dock in less than an hour. Delaying it now would raise more red flags than allowing it to come in clean.
But over my dead body would I let the Feds touch it.
I tap the comm unit in my ear and speak into the mic. “Patch me through to our main guy at customs here.”
A moment later, a gruff voice answers in Spanish. “Señor Petrov.”
“There’s a decoy shipment on Manifest D-117, arriving within the hour. Redirect the agents to that crate. Make it look like a hot lead. I want dogs. False alerts. A full spectacle.”
“Acknowledged.”
I end the call and turn to the lieutenant.
“I told the handlers to seal and mark the decoy as if it were an important shipment. They put a few busted radios and rice in it, and then some fertilizer for spice. The feds can have that.”
“Got it,” the lieutenant replies, already typing.
“Let them waste their search on crates of junk.”
A slight smirk curls at the corner of my mouth. I can already see the agents back in D.C. with their thick folders and thicker egos, filing paperwork for nothing while the real goods move under their noses.
Sometimes, intelligence is overrated. You just need the right distraction.
I climb the steel stairs to a narrow walkway overlooking the dock. From here, I can see everything—the security trucks positioned at the loading gate, the forklift operators moving like clockwork, the Bratva men blending in as local handlers.
No tension in their movements. Good. That’s what I want. A clean, invisible job right in the open space.
The container carrying our assets rolls into position. Unmarked. Sealed. Standard color. Just another metal box in a city of them.
Below me, the crew works without hesitation. No one rushes. No one slows. That’s how we’ve survived this long—by not looking like we’re trying to survive.
I fold my arms and lean against the railing, watching as the container is offloaded and quietly shifted onto a local hauler. Our logistics contact signs the manifest with a bored expression. Just another Tuesday night.
Although they’re professionals, I don’t relax. Not until the truck is on the road, headed toward a distribution site two hours inland. Only then do I step back and allow myself to breathe easily.
I walk back to the SUV, head down, mind already moving to the next step. We’ve plugged the leak for now. But there was a leak. And I don’t believe in coincidences.
The engine hums beneath me as I tear down the highway, headlights carving through the dark like blades. The heat from the docks still clings to my skin, sticky and suffocating. The windows are down, but the air outside is thick—like trying to breathe through gauze.