Page 58 of Blackwood

Laing kills the engine and we step out into the cold metal maze of the docks. The air smells like rust and salt. The container’s already there. Positioned as if it was waiting for us. So is the seller. Slick suit, ugly face, and a bodyguard who’s built like a refrigerator. He’s staring at me like I don’t belong.

I stare right back. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to start charging rent.”

He looks away first.

The seller steps forward, aiming straight for Laing. “Mr. Wei,” he says, reaching out like I’m not even here. “Pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Laing just smiles and nods toward me. “Nice to meet you too, Andre. However, I just brought the bitch here. You’re gonna have to deal with her.”

“Rude,” I mutter, then flash Andre a too-sweet smile. “But he’s right. Now, can I see my merchandise? I’ve got some loving families lined up and ready to meet these cuties.” I about gag on my own words.

He laughs, sharp and ugly, and jerks his chin toward his muscle. The guy moves to unlock the container.

I motion to Laing with a tilt of my head. “Go on, handsome. Make sure the merchandise matches the invoice.”

He walks over, unhurried but careful, and steps up to the container. The muscle unlocks it, swings the door open just enough for him to peek inside. Laing scans it, then glances back at me, shuts the door, and nods.

“Everything looks to be in order,” he says. “You want me to start the transfer?”

I nod. “Go ahead.”

Laing pulls out his phone, thumb tapping across the screen in an impressively convincing performance of wire fraud.

I turn back to Andre, keeping my voice light, almost flirtatious. “You know this is my first real time in the Bay Area.”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, smiling. “Too bad it isn’t football season. I would have loved to catch a Niners game.”

The secondNinersleaves my lips, both Andre and his muscle drop in sync, blood spraying the container walls behind them.

“Nice shootin’, Tex,” I say through the comms. “Although Kenji, I think you were a half of a second slow this time.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Iz,” Laing smirks as he walks back toward the container.

Eleven kids. Seven girls and four boys huddled together in the dark. Thin arms. Haunted faces. Most of them don’t even move.

But the smallest one in the back corner stops me cold. He can’t be more than four, five at the most.

“Dylan,” I whisper.

Or… he looks like he could be a Dylan clone. If I hadn’t seen Dylan die in front of me. If I hadn’t seen the blood on Zeke’s shirt and hands as he calmed me down that night, I’d swear this was him. Curly hair. Wide, terrified eyes. Exactly like the first time I saw Dylan in Mariela’s arms the day I arrived in Miami.

I step into the container, boots echoing off the steel. I walk past the older children, my eyes locked on him.

I kneel slowly until I’m eye-level. “Hey,” I say gently. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”

He doesn’t speak. Just stares, frozen. His little arm is twisted at a wrong angle, bruised and swollen. Shipping container. No straps. God knows how far they moved him. Probably broken.

I reach out slowly. “I’ve got you now, buddy. You’re gonna be okay.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. Just stares with hollow eyes like he already left his body behind. I slide my arms under him carefully, mindful of the arm. He winces and tears start to well in his eyes.

“I know, buddy,” I whisper. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

I carry him out of the container just as headlights cut through the dock haze. Nate and Knox roll up in the van, doors already open. Tex and Kenji materialize from the shadows, rifles slung, faces unreadable.

“Ambulance is about five minutes out,” Nate says.