40

---

“Okay, everyone, gather around,” Jordan orders, their tone leaving no room for argument. They step aside, revealing the corkboard in all its chaotic glory. It’s like a mad scientist’s version of a scrapbook. My ADHD brain whirls with delight at the sight of it. “I’ve got some information to share.”

I glance over at Jamila, who’s standing with her arms crossed, her face set in a hard line. Her gaze is fixed on the corkboard, but I can tell she’s not really seeing it. Her mind is elsewhere, probably running through all the possible ways she could put Jordan in their place.

Spinelli, on the other hand, is standing off to the side, his head tilted as he studies the corkboard with genuine interest. I can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to piece together the information in front of him. For a moment, I feel a pang of affection for him. He may be an airhead, but his heart’s in the right place.

And then there’s Jordan, standing at the front of the room like a teacher ready to give a lecture. They’re wearing their usual goth get-up, all black and silver, but there’s an intensity in their eyes that I haven’t seen before. It’s like they’re on a mission, and nothing’s going to stop them.

They clear their throat and begin to speak, their voice steady and confident. “Okay, here’s what I’ve gathered so far.” They gesture to the corkboard, which is covered in a maze of papers, pins, and strings. “As you can see, I’ve been busy. This is what I’ve been working on while Sam was off playing house with Gale.”

Jamila shoots Jordan a contemptuous glare but doesn’t interrupt.

Jordan shoots her a look, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’ve been investigating the Kingdom for the past month, trying to figure out what they’re planning. I’ve submitted FOIA requests for local crime reports that mention known Kingdom operations or symbols, studied all known incidents, reports, and news articles involving the Kingdom, and mapped out locations, names, and events. I’ve also used public records to identify properties and businesses owned by shell companies tied to Kingdom operations, and spent time observing corners and establishments in neighborhoods where Kingdom-affiliated gangs are known to operate.”

Jamila narrows her eyes. “You can’t just go around submitting FOIA requests willy-nilly. That’s a surefire way to get yourself flagged.”

Jordan smirks. “That’s what burner identities are for. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, sweetheart?”

I see Jamila’s fists clench at her sides. “Don’t call me that.”

Jordan chuckles but doesn’t press the issue. Instead, they continue with their presentation. “After gathering all the information, I started to narrow down the scope. Cross-referencing names, places, events, and Kingdom symbols. These guys aren’t kids, though. They don’t tag places. People they associate with do, but, you know, they don’t.”

They gesture to a second section of the board, this one dominated by a complex web of lines connecting various pieces of information.

Jamila squints at the board. “Is that… Is that a box of cell phones?”

Jordan blinks a couple of times. “Getting there!”

Jamila sighs, eyes rolling.

Jordan’s finger trails down the board to a third section, where photos of various locations and people are pinned alongside notes on security measures and staff schedules. “That’s just the beginning. I’ve also performed physical reconnaissance of the places identified, discreetly taking photos and noting security measures. I’ve done some light dumpster diving focused on businesses where I suspect Kingdom activity. I found mostly useless trash, but also some shredded documents that hint at recent purchases of chemicals and lab equipment. Probably for drug stuff. Not anything I care about.” Jordan explains, a hint of pride in their voice.

Jamila rolls her eyes. “You sound like a real James Bond. Did you also make time to seduce a beautiful woman while you were at it?”

Jordan chuckles. “No, but I did find a lot of phones. That’s what the phones are for. I told you I was getting to the phones!”

“They’re burners!” Spinelli says, getting his own little eureka moment. He seems very proud of himself.

“That’s right, weird tall kid. They’re Kingdom burners. I’m not so stupid as to call back on them or try to connect any wiretaps or anything – Pennsylvania is a two-party consent state, last I checked – but I did check the recent calls and pulled all the numbers into my reports. Not really anything interesting but it’s important to cover my bases.”

“Figures you’d go digging around in people’s trash, raccoon,” Jamila mocks under her breath, floating on a cushion of air.

“Can you please get along until we’re done with this?” I whisper. Jamila shoots me a look that says ‘no promises’.

She looks back at me, folds her arms over her chest, and sighs. She raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying they’re cooking up something big?”

Jordan nods. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I started pulling apart the shell companies online, public business registries, NetSphere searching, you know. I also visited various pawn shops and scrapyards in the city under a disguise, asking questions to gauge if any of them are involved in Kingdom activities. I did some social engineering to gather information on staff and operation times, then I cross-referenced this information with anything I could find on company sites. Found a bunch of low-level employees.”

Spinelli tilts his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, so you’ve been doing all this without Sam?”

Jordan nods. “I had to. She was busy with her own stuff, and I didn’t want to drag her into this until I had something solid.”

Jamila tries very hard to smile. “How considerate of you.”

Jordan’s jaw tightens, but they keep their composure. “I did what I thought was best. And it paid off. I’ve narrowed down the Kingdom’s operations to a specific warehouse in Northeast Philly. I’ve observed the warehouse meticulously, confirming a pattern and timing that suggests a deal is set for the 31st. I’ve set up a full surveillance kit near the planned deal site, tested all equipment, and made sure everything is ready for the sting.”

The room falls silent as Jordan finishes speaking. For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing. And then, from out of nowhere, Spinelli claps his hands together. “Wow, that’s amazing! You’re like a real-life detective!”

Jordan smirks. “I do my best.”

Jamila squints at the board, her earlier irritation forgotten. “You’re sure about this?”

Jordan nods. “As sure as I can be. Everything points to this being the real deal.”

And then, out of nowhere, Spinelli sneezes.

We all turn to look at him in surprise. He grins sheepishly. “Sorry, must be all the dust in here.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been working extremely hard to de-dust this place,” Jordan whines, flicking their finger against the corkboard.

There’s a moment of uncomfortable, awkward silence. Like a rubber band being pulled too taut, about to flick off and hurt someone.

Jordan breaks it. They stand up and begin to pace back and forth, hands in the pockets of their trench coat. “The warehouse is located at 4547 Trenton Ave, in Northeast Philly. It’s nestled between two other warehouses owned by Northern Import-Exports LLC and Orion Holdings LLC.” They point to the location on a map pinned to the corkboard.

Jamila frowns. “So what’s the deal about? Any of your fabulous intel have anything on that?”

Jordan shrugs. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. All I know is that it’s something big. I’ve got blueprints of the warehouse, but they’re years old and likely inaccurate.”

Spinelli leans forward, eyes wide. “Blueprints, you say?”

Jordan nods, pulling out a rolled-up piece of paper from their bag and unfurling it on the table. “As you can see, the layout is pretty standard for a warehouse of this size. But there’s no telling what changes have been made since then.”

Jamila peeks at the blueprints. “Any idea what we’re looking for?”

Jordan leans over the table, tapping a few points on the map, pointedly brushing past Jamila’s question. “The main entrance is here, but it’s heavily guarded at all times. There are two side entrances. One on the east, and the other to the west. I’ve observed that the west side is generally less populated, likely used for employees. We’re going to have to be extra careful. Our goal is to get in, collect evidence we can turn over to the… proper authorities,” they say, the last part clearly leaving a bad taste in their mouth, “and get out. No confrontation, no starting a fight. We’re not looking for anything in particular. We’re not here to play heroes.”

Spinelli raises an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself.”

Jordan turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “And what can you do, weird tall kid?”

Spinelli grins. “Did you not see me pull myself out of a fucking backpack, man?”

Jordan raises an eyebrow. “Sure, that could be useful. Especially if those blueprints aren’t up-to-date. We might need you to scout and possibly open up alternate routes for us.”

Jamila nods in agreement. “So, weird tall kid goes in first?”

Spinelli grins. “You can call me Spinelli, you know?”

Jordan smiles. “So, weird tall kid goes in first. Any objections?”

Spinelli’s grin widens, his face stretching out, grimacing like a chimpanzee about to bite someone.

---

The distant streetlights, just shimmering orbs through the thick Philly fog, cast their soft glow upon the huge warehouse below. “4547 Trenton Ave” is painted in big, faded white numbers at the front of the building, barely readable under years of dirt and water damage. The warehouse itself is a monster of rust-streaked steel, standing silently, like an urban giant protecting its forgotten treasures.

All around the compound is a chain-link fence, with the top twisted into barbed wire. At various points along this barrier, bright lamps stand as guards, their pale light creating pockets of visibility in the encroaching darkness. But even these strong beams seem weak, bending due to the moist air. They only make the contrasts more intense: the dark areas become even deeper in response to their brightness.

On the left side of the main building, there are a bunch of smaller buildings that are hard to make out because of the darkness and distance. Some look like storage sheds, while others have the specific look of offices or workshops. There are also a few old delivery trucks parked in a messy way in what used to be a neat yard. Grass and weeds grow stubbornly through the cracks in the concrete, giving the place a natural feel as if nature is slowly taking it back.

The main entrance of the warehouse is a huge sliding door that is tightly closed. Next to it, there is a smaller door that seems to be used by people going in and out. It is hard to tell if it is being watched from this far away, but given how important tonight’s mission is, we can’t make any assumptions. The two side entrances, barely visible from this angle, are dark and look like they could easily swallow anyone who dares to enter.

The scene is so still, it is almost deceptive. You can hear the faint noise of the city, the distant traffic and people carrying on with their lives, which is a stark contrast to the heavy silence of the warehouse. It has an eerie sense of anticipation. Who knows what it is waiting for? Maybe the next shipment, the next deal, or perhaps some mysterious person entering through its doors. Or maybe it is just waiting for time to take its toll, like everything else eventually does.

The moon is big and bright, hanging low in the sky, giving the streets of Northeast Philly a creepy glow. It is Halloween night, and even though it is late, you can still hear kids laughing and shouting as they go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. Their costumes are nothing more than dark shapes running between the patches of light from the streetlamps.

The area around here is pretty quiet, except for the occasional passing car or the distant sounds of kids having fun trick-or-treating. It’s an industrial area, and most of the businesses have already closed for the day. The streets are lined with parked cars and dumpsters, and the pavement is cracked and uneven. The air has this damp and decaying smell that hangs in the atmosphere, like something illicit is going on inside the warehouse.

But tonight, this old place is more than meets the eye. It houses secrets, illegal deals, and potential danger, all hidden behind its run-down appearance. The city lights give a faint orange glow to the mist, making everything look kind of spooky. From up here, the world feels calm and disconnected. It’s like a scene where something big is about to happen, and we’re about to be a part of it. The game we’re about to play has some serious stakes.

The city sprawls out beneath us as we make our descent, an intricate tapestry of lights and shadows. From this height, the people below look like small dogs, their movements erratic and unfocused. The buildings are monolithic structures that rise up from the ground, towering over the people, not so high as to scrape the clouds but tall enough to make everything look like a diorama from here.

Gale floats beside us, her feet not quite touching the roof as she guides us gently downwards. Her hair is tucked away neatly under a black hijab, and her eyes are focused, concentration etched into every line of her face. She’s dressed in dark clothes, a stark contrast to the bright colors of her normal superhero outfit. Like us, she wears a small emergency mask – really, more of a shawl than anything else – her identity hidden from prying eyes. Including other superheroes.

Jordan got us all bank robber masks. Fun!

Normally, Gale can’t drop four people at once, but Spindle apparently floats like a leaf, and with two people in hand Gale can do a sort of controlled fall. There’s a rooftop that’s higher than our target, so we’re good to go. After a moment, she turns to us and gives a slight nod, signaling that the coast is clear.

The night air nibbles at our cheeks as we hover down, a spectral crew held by Gale’s command. The warehouse looms ahead, its massive form a darker shape against the pitch-black sky. The metal walls of the building bear the marks of neglect, rust spreading like a rash in the chilly October air. It’s a silent monolith in the midst of abandoned lots and crumbling facades, a relic of a bustling industry now silenced.

As we land on the gravel-covered roof, I feel the slight give beneath my boots, the crunch a whispered secret in the stillness of the night. The warehouse stretches out into darkness, broken only by the occasional dirty skylight. A tangle of ventilation shafts and pipes form a maze of metal that not even rats could navigate.

The air is heavy with the musty scent of long-gone rain, and a tang of rust lingers in the cool breezes. It’s a smell that brings to mind old coins and forgotten corners. The expansive roof spreads around us, blending into the shadows that cling to the walls. Everything feels damp and cold, the type of cold that seeps into my bones and whispers of winters long past.

Safeguard, dressed all in black like a ninja – like the rest of us – signals us with a quick hand gesture. We spread out, moving silently like ghosts. Their eyes, only lit by the faint glow of the city lights, carefully survey the area like a strategist. Safeguard holds a small LED flashlight to the ground, keeping it hidden to avoid drawing attention. We all know how important it is to move without making a sound, it’s like a superpower in our line of work, whatever you want to call it. It’s not about being a hero tonight. Not in the normal way.

Down below, on the edge of the warehouse, the guard has no idea we’re here. He’s completely absorbed in his phone, the shifting lights from his game casting creepy shadows on his face. With each drag of his cigarette, a small ember glows and he seems completely at ease. From where we’re standing, I can see his thumb swiping across the screen, occasional puffs of smoke escaping into the night, and the small circle of light that creates his own little world of interest.

He is completely alone, stationed at his post out of necessity rather than vigilance. The screen of his phone is his only companion. He’s in his own little bubble of indifference, where sports replays mean more to him than the darkness of the warehouse or the night sky above.

With the path now clear, Gale’s powers bring us down with excruciating patience, a feather on the breath of a sleeping child. The distance closes inch by inch until our feet finally kiss the gritty texture of the ground.

Safeguard steps forward the moment our feet touch ground, their movements silent and precise. They produce a wave rake with the ease of a magician conjuring a coin, setting to work on the padlock with the deftness of a seasoned locksmith. In moments that stretch out like hours, the click of the lock surrendering is the sweetest music, a symphony of entry gained without alarm. They push the door open with a gentle nudge, and we slip inside, swallowed by the warehouse’s cavernous maw.

---

My heart is tap-dancing against my ribs, maybe it’s trying to keep up with the Halloween spirit. Jordan, looking every bit the part of the ringleader in this circus of shadows, is as unflappable as ever. There’s a gravitas to them that never really fades, not even now, when we’re about to do something that feels like it’s straight out of a spy movie.

We slide inside, and it’s like stepping into the belly of a beast. It’s all concrete and steel, the kind of place where echoes go to die. No catwalks smile down at us, no second floors wink from above, just boxes. Boxes upon boxes, towering like a forest made… of boxes. It’s almost disappointing, how mundane it all looks–until you remember why they’re here.

Safeguard’s already a shadow among shadows, phone in hand glowing like a firefly. The screen’s so dim it’s like they’re trying to keep secrets from the photons themselves. “Take the boxes and make a fort. Simple fort. No talking,” the words flicker on their screen, and I can’t help but think that if we were in a comic book, this would be the panel where you’d see their dialogue bubble filled with something gritty and heroic.

Gale looks skeptical, her eyes narrow like she’s trying to read the fine print. But me? I trust Safeguard. They’re like a compass pointing north; you don’t ask why, you just follow. We shuffle boxes with the kind of care you’d use if they were made of glass, carving out a den. It’s nothing at first, just an opening — a promise of space. Well, I shuffle boxes, because I’m the strongest person here.

I know what Safeguard is planning. They just need a floor, two walls, and a ceiling. I make the smallest possible crevice that they could fit into, and step back. I don’t need to make a ruckus, I don’t need to move like… more than two boxes. Scoot one over on the floor as quietly as possible, then make a roof. There. Done.

Safeguard slips inside and vanishes. I grab Gale’s hand and follow, with Spindle close behind.

It’s not exactly luxury, but with some clever diagonal space-shifting, Safeguard has created an adequate hideout with enough room to fit everyone in all three dimensions, albeit crampedly. Crampedly… I don’t know if that’s a word. But we’ve got four full sized humans in a space designed for like 0.75 of a human so it’s better than nothing.

From the outside, it’s still just a couple of boxes huddled together, but inside, it’s our own little room. It’s filled with nothing but discarded packaging and the faint smell of dust and old metal, but it feels like a castle. It’s a secret swollen space, Safeguard’s creation, and we nestle into it, ready to watch and wait. Our very own invisible tower in the middle of the warehouse. It’s almost exciting.

No, it is exciting. Part of my brain hopes we get caught. I squish that part very very very hard very fast.

I can’t shake the surreal feeling as we settle in.

I’m sandwiched between Jordan and Jamila, with Connor – Spindle – wedged behind me. I settle back against the wooden boxes, trying to get comfortable. It’s not easy; the floor’s hard and unyielding, and every time I move, there’s a rustle that sounds like a shout in the silence. But it’s not about being comfy, is it? It’s about being vigilant, about being ready. About catching the bad guys and getting out without a scratch.

The warehouse floor begins to slowly fill up with people.

The warehouse is exactly the kind of place you’d think about when someone says ‘suspicious dealings go down here’. It’s vast, cavernous, and echoes with every shuffling foot and muttered conversation. We’re tucked away, sort of folded into space like we’re part of a page that’s been dog-eared. It’s a tight fit, cramped with the four of us pressed together, and I can’t help but think this is like one of those clown cars but for superheroes. Or, well, teens with superpowers playing hero.

Time’s funny when you’re waiting, all coiled up and tense. It’s been thirty minutes, not that I’m counting each second, but it sort of feels like that part of a song that just goes on and on before the breakdown starts. The minutes are stuffed with the small sounds of us trying to stay still and silent, and the increasingly not-so-muffled voices of people gathering on the warehouse floor. These are the henchmen types, I guess — just folks in hoodies and jeans looking more ready for a lazy Sunday than criminal activity. But what do I know about criminal fashion?

There’s this weird sense of excitement that buzzes under my skin, a cocktail of adrenaline and that fizzy, impatient energy that’s got nowhere to go because I have to stay put. I catch myself fiddling with the hem of my sleeve, rolling the fabric between my fingers, then force myself to stop. I try not to turn my phone on, so I can check it. That’s right! I remembered my phone this time.

About fifteen minutes in, the high-up warehouse lights flicker on with a sound that’s like a giant flipping a massive light switch somewhere. It throws harsh white light over everything, casting long, dramatic shadows and turning dust particles into a galaxy of floating stars. But the light’s like stage lighting that doesn’t reach the back of the room where the audience sits — in this case, us. We’re in the dark, unseen.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. It’s getting kinda cramped in here with all of us packed in close, and I’m really hoping this Jordan-made space won’t suddenly snap back to normal size like some twisted jack-in-the-box. I know it won’t, but that doesn’t prevent the nightmare visions from happening anyway.

The eastern door, a heavy slab of metal that seems like it could withstand a battering ram, creaks open with the kind of authority that turns heads, even among a crowd of roughnecks who are probably used to keeping their eyes front. Then, like a scene from one of those old gangster movies where the big boss steps into the speakeasy and the piano player hits a wrong note, in walk the duo–Mr. Polygraph and Mrs. Heartstopper.

Mr. Polygraph is just as I remember from our first unfortunate run-in. He’s got that salt-and-pepper hair that looks like he’s tried to brush it into submission, but there are a few rebellious strands that give him a sort of disheveled dignity. His mustache is a dense brush of grey and white that sits over his lip like it’s guarding the secrets that pass beneath it. His suit is dark, charcoal or black, I can’t tell in this light, but it’s sharp, the kind that you know wasn’t off-the-rack. It’s all angles and clean lines – a stark contrast to the disarray around him.

And Mrs. Heartstopper is something else entirely. It’s like she’s walked off a high-fashion runway and into this dingy warehouse. She’s all in red, in various shades and styles, from the sharp stiletto heels that click with a rhythm of impending doom, to the dress that’s somehow both classy and ready-for-action. The hoop earrings catch the light as she moves, sending little flashes like warning signals, and her long hair is a curtain of authority. Her fingerless gloves expose her touch for lethal precision as necessary. I know what she’s capable of.

They don’t do anything as mundane as shout for attention. They don’t need to. Their presence is a gravitational pull, and everyone in the room orbits around them, faces turning as they walk by, conversations dwindling into silence. They make an entrance without any fanfare because their reputations proceed them like a herald. It’s clear, painfully clear, that they’re the most important people here. Everyone can feel it.

As the weighty door groans shut behind them, the collective breath of the gathered seems to hang in the still, dust-moted air. We’re a rag-tag audience, lined up against the rough walls like students before the principal–only the stakes are way higher, and detention is probably a luxury compared to what Mr. Polygraph would hand out for misdemeanors.

Mr. Polygraph stands at the front like he’s been doing this all his life, which he probably has. You’d think a guy like him would have an air of the bureau about him, something crisp and polished, but no. There’s a world-weariness hanging off his shoulders, making the fabric of his jacket strain just a touch. I bet if he could, he’d trade his badge for a good night’s sleep and a day without headaches. That’s what his eyes tell me. They’re red-rimmed, the left one twitching like it’s got a mind of its own, a product of too many sleepless nights and coffee that tastes more like battery acid.

He doesn’t march to the center of the room so much as commandeer it, pacing with deliberate, weary steps, a predator too tired to stalk but too hungry to rest.

Mrs. Heartstopper doesn’t follow him. Instead, she positions herself near the entrance, a sentinel in scarlet, her posture both alert and relaxed–a paradox only the truly dangerous can embody. There’s an ease to her vigilance, like she knows that not a soul would dare cross her, and it’s not just her reputation that assures this, but every poised, lethal inch of her. She’s not saying a word. She doesn’t have to. She’s a living, breathing stop sign — blood red and impossible to ignore. She’s got her arms folded, a stance that says ‘try me’ more effectively than any snarl could.

“So,” Mr. Polygraph begins, his voice resonating with the kind of deep, grinding fatigue that comes from too many miles and too little sleep. “I’ve just come back from a meeting with Mrs. B in the Capitol. A lot of air and not enough road.” His words are edged with a frustration so tangible it’s like another entity in the room. “Let’s get this over with. I want to go home, check on my kids, and raid their Halloween stash. If that’s not a cause you sympathize with, consider your presence here a waste.”

There’s a ripple of nervous laughter, the sound almost as strained as Mr. Polygraph’s patience. It’s clear his temper is a frayed wire, sparking dangerously close to a barrel of gunpowder. His hand lingers near his belt.

Mr. Polygraph runs a hand over his face, smoothing out the wrinkles of his grimace before he continues. “We’ve been tailing Chernobyl,” he says, and I swear the temperature in the room drops a few degrees at the mention of the name. “Our surveillance isn’t always… fruitful,” he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be a smirk in any other situation, but is something I can easily recognize in him as anger. “But we’ve got a haul today, and you’re going to help us move it.”

Safeguard’s phone is out, recording the whole thing from the narrow crevice, the crack between two boxes. I made sure to angle them so that it’s the tiniest, narrowest sliver out front, the walkable entrance slash exit out back. Like a triangle. The space is all tangled up and folded and duplicated and thinking about the geometry makes my head hurt, so I don’t do that. I just watch and absorb.

“You take a box. What’s inside, you turn to cash. Copper, paper, tech — it’s your job to liquidate the assets. I don’t give a shit how. Anyone can break knees. Not any weed dealer on the street can convert a crate full of printer paper into cold hard American dollars.” His eyes pin everyone around him one by one, like a fly being stabbed with a needle, getting ready to display them.

“The goal,” he continues, “is to bring back twenty thousand in cash in a month and a half’s time. That’s the middle of December, when nothing important is happening. Each. Do that, and you’re in. You’ll have proven you’re more than just another face in the crowd. You’re a broker, a financier, a…” A shadow of a smirk crosses his face, “A philanthropist of the underground, if you will.”

A murmur courses through the room. It’s a challenge, a test of entrepreneurial spirit in a world where profit is measured in secrets and survival. It’s oddly mundane. I would’ve expected something much worse, but being here, still, the air is thick. Gale’s face, the parts that I can see, looks blanched of color. I squeeze her hand. She squeezes mine back.

“You can also just take it and run. I don’t give a shit. We’re not going to shoot you. If you don’t come back, your position is forfeit. You lose any chance of getting made in the future. But, like, go ahead, run off with a bunch of fucking printers. There’s only one thing worth punishing,” he says, pulling a gun out from a holster on his belt. He spins it around a couple of times in his hand. “I mean, obviously, snitching will get a bullet between your eyes. That’s not the one thing, but we’re all adults here, I figure that goes without saying. No, the one thing worth punishing is lack of discretion. Make sure nothing can be traced. Split your transactions. Get it through your underlings. You’re all the cream of the toddler crop, I trust you know how to shake a trail.”

He coughs twice into his fist, and then thumps his chest. “You get any heat and Mr. M is going to put you six feet under personally. They won’t even be able to dig you up with sniffin’ dogs.”

The air is quiet. Silent. Gravity weighs on my shoulders.

“Wow…” Spindle whispers. I slap my hand over his mouth and squeeze, and he looks at me with the most apologetic, wet, pathetic dog eyes in the world. I squeeze again and then let go. No more talking. I hope that’s clear enough.

He folds his arms, the stance of a man who’s laid his terms out and expects them to be met. “We’ve got forklifts and dollies and hand trucks and shit at the back. You can open the boxes but don’t dawdle – I want everyone out here in half an hour, tops. Before you are allowed to leave with any boxes, you are to pass by me, and I am going to quiz you as to any undercover police bullshit you may be pulling. I can tell if you are lying, and I will shoot you. If you’d like to get shot now instead of in twenty minutes, simply start running. It will be less embarrassing for you. If you pass the sniff test, you get a truck. Load as you like. It’s yours now. Are we clear?”

A murmur of assent ripples through the collected crowd of criminals, about thirty people strong. It’s a veritable parade of the neighborhood’s worst – I recognize one of the Coyotes, even, the one with the greasy skin, but no Aaron in sight. It’s nothing more than an interesting bit of trivia.

Wait.

They’re unloading the boxes.

Safeguard’s hand, a silent conductor of our orchestrated escape, stops the recording. It’s done with the secrecy of a magician’s sleight, the phone vanishing into the void they command. My muscles tense, each fiber strung as tight as piano wire, ready to unravel in a moment’s notice. The phone’s disappearance is a signal, the starting gun of our quiet race against discovery.

We start retracting from the belly of Safeguard’s box fort, a womb of darkness we’ve clung to in this haven of ill intent. It’s an inching, painstaking process. We fold into ourselves, minimizing the space our bodies claim as the warehouse’s occupants begin their laborious task. The groan of tape peeling and cardboard scraping against concrete sets my teeth on edge, a soundtrack to our tension.

With every box moved, our cover dwindles, piece by cardboard piece. It’s a mental game of chess, and we’re the kings seeking safe squares on a board where the rules are being shredded with every passing second. Our exit is to the west, a door that’s both our savior and the maw of potential disaster. We need to reach it cloaked in the ignorance of our enemies.

The forklifts and the clatter of dollies create a mechanical symphony, a rhythmic guide for our synchronized movements. We move like phantoms, each of us aware that the walls of our sanctuary are thinning. Spindle, bless him, is the mouse among cats, his frame contorting, folding into shapes that defy the solidness of his skeleton. It’s mesmerizing, the way he twists through the shrinking gaps, a testament to the peculiarities of our kind.

As the criminals work, the shuffling of feet and the clink of ill-gotten metals are interspersed with grunts and muttered curses. They’re pirates dividing their spoils, unaware that interlopers hide in plain sight. Safeguard leads, their presence an anchor in this sea of chaos, a guiding star as we navigate the obstacles.

With every step, my heartbeat is a drum loud enough to betray us, each thump a chime of adrenaline that I fear will call attention to our presence. But it doesn’t; our luck, it seems, is holding, a fragile bubble we tread within.

There are moments, heart-stopping instances, where the nearness of our discovery is a razor’s edge. A box shifts and for a second, our cover is almost blown, a sliver of exposure that could unravel everything. But the moment passes, the shadow swallows us again, and we press on, firm against the walls of the warehouse.

The western door, our exit from this den of wolves, grows steadily closer. It’s a beacon, the promise of safety, of mission accomplished. Our breaths, though shallow and measured, are prayers to the deities of the hidden and the unseen, beseeching them to drape us in their veils until we’re beyond these walls.

It’s a dance with danger, where every movement is choreographed by necessity and silence is our partner. We are ghosts, whispers of maybe and might-have-been to the unsuspecting thieves around us. As the last box is pulled away, revealing the path to our salvation, we slip through, a final act of invisible defiance.

The door is just there, an arm’s length, a heart’s beat away.

BANG!

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