Page 62 of Undercover Hearts
At 10:50 p.m., the atmosphere shifted as security personnel activated earpieces simultaneously.
"Vessel approaching," Kendall announced. "Dock teams to position."
Michelle moved with her assigned group toward the private dock, the wooden walkway illuminated by carefully positioned lights that revealed only what was necessary. The salt air grew stronger as they descended, metal railings cool beneath her hand, the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocky shoreline below providing audio cover for any approaching tactical teams.
At the dock's end, Sienna waited, flanked by security personnel. Beyond them, the dark water stretched toward the horizon, interrupted only by the approaching running lights of a vessel cutting through the night.
"Right on schedule," Sienna commented as Michelle joined her. "Isabella values precision."
The observation confirmed what they'd suspected: Isabella Garcia would be personally overseeing this shipment. Maximum evidence potential, but also maximum risk.
The vessel approached, its engines quieting as it maneuvered alongside the dock. No identifying markings adorned its hull, its design suggesting speed and stealth rather than commercial function.
Michelle positioned herself strategically, ensuring clear sightlines to both the approaching vessel and the beach house above. Her peripheral vision caught movement along the rocky coastline—Lieutenant Hodges' tactical team moving into final position, exactly as planned.
The first figure emerged from the vessel: a tall woman with black hair pulled into a tight bun. Isabella Garcia stepped onto the dock with the confidence of someone who controlled every aspect of her environment. Behind her, crew members began securing the vessel while others prepared to unload cargo.
"Sienna," Isabella greeted. "Perfect conditions."
"As promised," Sienna replied, gesturing toward Michelle.
“It’s nice to see you again, Isabella,” Michelle said, offering her hand.
Isabella turned her attention to Michelle, her smile never reaching her eyes as she extended her hand for a curt shake. “Likewise.”
"First container ready," a crew member called, breaking the tension.
"Shall we?" Sienna gestured toward the cargo being hoisted from the vessel's hold.
Michelle moved into position, hyper-aware of the developing situation. The tactical teams would be in final positionnow, awaiting her signal. The specialized recording equipment concealed in her jewelry captured every word, every movement.
As the container was positioned on the dock, Michelle maintained her composed exterior while her mind calculated timing with exacting precision. Ten more minutes until the predetermined signal. Ten minutes to gather final evidence while maintaining their cover under increasingly suspicious scrutiny.
The container doors swung open, revealing stacked crates labeled as educational materials. Michelle stepped forward with the verification team, her trained eyes noting the too-perfect construction, the slightly off dimensions that suggested hidden compartments.
And throughout it all, her awareness remained fixed on the beach house above, where Jenna gathered the financial evidence that would complete their case—separated from Michelle by increasing distance and mounting danger.
The operation had begun its final phase. The point of no return now lay behind them.
The container's revealed interior triggered a flurry of activity as Sienna's verification team moved with practiced efficiency. Michelle maintained her professional assessment as crates were unloaded from the shipping container onto wheeled platforms, each bearing the Phoenix Women's Collective logo—educational materials ostensibly bound for underserved communities.
"Initiate verification protocol," Sienna directed, her voice carrying the calm authority of someone who had overseen similar operations many times before.
Two women in PWC uniforms approached with electronic scanning equipment, passing the devices over each crate to confirm contents against their manifests. Michelle positioned herself strategically beside the third crate, which accordingto their intelligence contained the designer drugs directly connected to Beatrice Leblanc's death.
"New procedure," Kendall announced, moving to Michelle's side with unsettling timing. "Physical verification of select crates. Rodriguez, you'll handle this one."
The instruction wasn't a request. Michelle maintained her composed expression while calculating the implications. A test, most likely—Kendall watching her reaction to the contraband.
"Of course," Michelle replied, accepting the pry bar a dock worker handed her.
She worked the metal edge beneath the crate's lid with controlled precision, leveraging the wood upward to reveal carefully packed educational materials: textbooks, teaching aids, and women's health pamphlets in Spanish and Portuguese. The disguise was meticulous, professionally executed.
"Verification level two," Kendall instructed, her gaze never leaving Michelle's face.
Michelle inserted gloved hands beneath the materials, fingers searching with methodical purpose until they encountered the false bottom—expertly crafted and nearly imperceptible. With practiced movements that belied the tension coiling through her body, she released the hidden latches.
The compartment revealed itself: vacuum-sealed packages nestled in precise rows, their contents a crystalline powder with the faintest blue tint—the designer stimulant.