Page 67 of Veil of Smoke

We both look at the device again. Two inches of metal. A wire inside that sings when it warms up. Just enough to kill a block.

“Help me destroy them,” I say.

“Gladly,” she replies.

I go to the back wall, haul out the blowtorch. She stands beside me without needing instruction.

Together, we strip the crates open. One by one. Devices laid bare. Core wires exposed. I hand her gloves. She pulls them on, ties her hair back. The expression on her face is grim. Focused.

The torch hisses to life.

Each hum dies in screaming sparks.

The acrid scent of burning metal curls through the space. Not smoke—just something sharper, more chemical. It stings the eyes, clings to the back of the throat.

We work in tandem. Hands slick with sweat and oil. Gloved fingers working screws loose, pliers biting wire. The last case cracks like bone.

When it’s done, the crates are empty. The table scorched. And our breaths, sharp and shallow, hang in the cold again.

Viviana turns her head. “You okay?”

“No,” I answer. “But I’m better than I was yesterday.”

She reaches out, brushes a flake of black casing from my cheek. Her thumb lingers.

“You still think I’m not meant for this?” she asks.

I meet her eyes. “No. I think you’re built for more than even you know.”

Her breath hitches, and for a second, her mask slips. Not weakness. Just the truth peeking through.

“Then let’s make it count,” she says. “reduce everything he built to ashes.”

I nod.

The train depot feels heavier now—but clearer.

All that’s left is fire.

The blueprint is spread wide across the crate between us. It’s been folded and refolded so many times that the creases have turned soft, almost worn through. I trace the edge of the train line with my knuckle. A junction near South Canal Street. Abandoned, disconnected from the modern grid. Forgotten by everyone except Caldera.

Viviana leans over the map, her hair tied back, sleeves rolled. Her eyes cut sharp in the dim light, narrowing on the markings I scratched in black ink an hour ago. She doesn’t ask me to explain. She already knows what each line means.

“They’ll stash the prototype in the second crate from the back,” I say. “Taller one. Marked as expired lithium batteries. They do that when they want the inspectors to look the other way.”

She drags her finger across the page. “We intercept here. Before the drop truck exits the tunnel?”

I nod. “Exactly. We rig our shell inside that crate before it leaves the yard.”

Her eyes flick up to mine. “And if they notice the swap?”

“They won’t.” I reach behind me and pull the duffel from the corner. “Because this isn’t a swap. It’s a burial.”

I unzip the bag. Inside: a dead unit, the same shape, same markings, hollowed out and filled with a timed charge. Enough to torch the container without killing anyone. But it’ll send a message loud enough for Corradino to feel it in his teeth.

Viviana says nothing. She just stares.

“It’s not elegant,” I add. “But it gets the job done.”

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