Page 97 of Veil of Smoke

Three days from now, dawn, when the port’s choked with ships, that’s when it hits. I fold the paper, stuff it in my jacket, the weight of it pressing against my chest.

I step back, the crate looming around me, its contents a threat I can’t unsee. The fog clings thicker, the yard’s stillness pressing in, and I know I’ve got to move.

I turn to go outside the container, my boots scraping the steel floor, shock rooting me for a beat at what I just saw.

I don’t breathe until I’m clear of the container row.

The wind cuts through my coat, damp with the stink of oil and rust. I pull my phone from my back pocket. My hand’s shaking.

I hit Viviana’s number and press it to my ear.

It rings once.

Twice.

“Yeah?” Her voice is rough with sleep, low but already sharpening.

“I found it,” I say.

She doesn’t respond, just listens.

I swallow. “The shipment. Not just gear. Not just disruption nodes.”

I look back over my shoulder at the rusted corridor of crates, container numbers tagged in black marker, codes I don’t recognize stamped into the steel.

“It’s not just tech,” I tell her. “It’s a blueprint for collapse. If this drops, the entire port goes dark. Air traffic. Communications. Grid goes down. The city stutters.”

Still no panic from her. No disbelief.

Just Viviana’s voice, steel wrapped in cold: “And then Corradino steps in, looking like a savior.”

“Yeah.” My throat is dry.

“Then we clear it. We burn it all.”

I lean against a nearby stack of barrels, press my forehead to my arm. My breath fogs up my sleeve. She doesn’t have to see my face to know what I’m feeling.

“If we do this,” I say, quietly, “we won’t be ghosts anymore.”

I hear the mattress creak on her end, the rustle of fabric as she sits up. “What does that mean?”

“It means Caldera stops whispering. They scream. It means no more running. No more safehouses. We’ll be targets. Fully exposed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “We have to risk it.”

I glance back toward the container. My ribs ache. My heart pounds—not with adrenaline, but with something heavier.

Resolve.

“I’ll bring a piece back,” I tell her. “You need to see it.”

“Where?”

“The drop spot. Abandoned rail station by the industrial yard. You know it?”

“Yeah. Meet in two hours.”

Her voice doesn’t waver. It anchors me. Even now.

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