Page 96 of Veil of Smoke

I nod once. “I don’t.”

His voice drops, reverent but real. “Good. Because I’m not. I’m following you.”

The rain keeps falling.

Chapter 22 – Dario

I step into the eastern row of the Lake Michigan shipping yard, bolt cutters gripped tight in my hand. The breakwater looms ahead, a dark line slicing across the horizon just before dawn creeps in.

Rows of rusting containers line the yard like headstones, their steel surfaces pitted and scarred by wind and neglect. Floodlights hum in the distance, casting weak beams that fade long before they reach this abandoned edge.

Chains clank against their moorings, a low, mournful sound carried on the bitter cold. Frost coats the metal under my boots, crunching faintly with each step, and a thin haze rolls off the lake, brushing my face with damp fingers.

I move between shadows, staying low, my breath puffing out in quick, white bursts. A tip from a Caldera defector’s burner phone brought me here, a ghost manifest with one code scratched into the message, CR-09-Helix.

The yard feels too still, like it’s braced for a hit, and I catch myself scanning every corner, every gap, waiting for the trap to spring.

I thought we burned the last of it, torched their tech in that yard fire, gutted their edge with Viviana’s help. But ghosts don’t burn. They wait. They watch. And when your guard slips, they strike.

I weave through the rows, eyes tracing numbers stenciled on rusted doors, faded paint peeling under the frost. My boots scrape the ground, the sound sharp and unwelcome, and I adjust my pace, keeping it tight, controlled.

CR-09 comes into view, tucked at the far end, painted black with no insignia, just one red line slashed across the door. It stands out stark against the weathered steel, a mark that pulls me in.

I stop, crouching beside it, bolt cutters poised. The lock’s heavy, rusted but solid, and I wedge the blades in, twisting hard until it snaps with a dull crack.

The door groans as I pull it open, hinges grinding loud in the pre-dawn chill. Inside, crates stack tight, not the rough, industrial kind we hit before, battered and patched.

These are sleek, their edges smooth, surfaces labeled with port signal codes and surveillance overlays etched in crisp, precise lines. My stomach knots, this isn’t the same game.

I step inside, the cold curling around my legs, clinging to my jeans. The cold bites deeper here, the steel walls amplifying it, and I feel the hairs on my neck stand up.

I thought we’d crippled them, left them scrambling after the last hit. But this feels different, heavier, like a shadow I didn’t see coming.

I set the bolt cutters down, pulling a small pry bar from my jacket. The nearest crate’s side panel resists at first, then gives with a sharp pop, revealing what’s inside.

EMP-enabled relays gleam under the faint light, wired tight and compact, stacked beside black-box transmitters and timed detonator nodes.

This isn’t just sabotage. It’s a warhead hidden in a freight invoice, built to crash the port’s infrastructure, fry civilian systems, and kick off chaos on a scale we haven’t faced.

I kneel, running my fingers over the relays, the metal cold and unyielding against my skin. Corradino’s not just fighting Caldera’s war anymore, he’s aiming to break everything, push it into civil war territory.

I lift one of the transmitters, turning it over, tracing the etched codes with my thumb. I set the transmitter down, hands steady but my mind racing. The EMP relays could black out the port, kill the cranes, the docks, the shipping logs, all of it in one pulse.

The black-box units mean remote overrides, control from anywhere, chaos whenever Corradino wants it. And the detonators, small and precise, they’re timed to hit key points, blow the whole system apart.

I lean back, staring at the crates, the sleek lines mocking me. I thought we’d burned their plans, left them reeling, but Corradino’s been building this, hiding it, waiting.

Viviana’s face flashes in my head, green eyes fierce, stitching me up last night in that motel. She’s in this now, deeper than I meant, and these ghosts are hers to face too.

I grab my phone, snapping quick shots of the crates, the labels, the tech, the flash cutting harsh through the dimness. CR-09 isn’t just a shipment, it’s a loaded gun pointed at the city.

I pocket the phone, my fingers brushing the knife at my belt, instinct keeping me sharp. The fog thickens inside the crate, swirling around my boots, and I feel the cold seep into my bones.

I stand, stepping closer to the crates, peering at the wiring. The relays hum faint, live but not armed, their circuits waiting for a trigger.

I thought we’d bought time, hit them hard enough to breathe. But this, it’s a move I didn’t see, a play that changes the board.

I pry another panel, finding a small stack of papers tucked beneath, a manifest scratched in black ink. CR-09-Helix, port codes, trigger sequences, detonation schedules, all laid out clean.

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