Page 1 of Axle
1
ASHLYNN
Iwas nearly finished with an illustration for a social media challenge to draw a beach scene in your style when the light shifted through the blinds. It caught the edge of my tablet screen, making me blink.
Crap.
I’d meant to stop a while ago, but I’d gotten too focused on the texture of the sand and completely lost track of time.
After setting the tablet aside, I leaned back and stretched, cracking my neck. My stomach growled, and I took that as my cue to break for lunch.
After padding into the kitchen to make a sandwich, I grabbed my laptop and settled on the floor in front of the coffee table. Taking a big bite, I activated my VPN and opened my secure browser. Then I headed to the dark website for an information broker I’d worked with before to see if they had a job for me.
Their site was a digital fortress with multifactor tokens and masked routing protocols. Half the work was just logging in, but it was worth navigating the maze because the privacy kept me safe and the jobs gave me the flexibility I needed to pursue my dream of becoming a professional illustrator.
The courier gigs I picked up were anonymous, but I still didn’t take any that were illegal. Which was why this particular broker was my favorite—they dealt in information, not product. So I didn’t need to worry about moving drugs or guns without being aware of what was in the package when I accepted an assignment from them.
I took another bite of my sandwich while I watched as the onion layers peeled back and the familiar login screen loaded. Using my code name and cryptographic handshake, I got in. And grinned when I saw a new job offer posted to my account.
Whoa.
One that paid way more than usual.
Ten thousand dollars for a simple courier run. It was enough to cover me for the next four or five months, which made it both suspicious and tempting.
I skimmed the details. The need for secrecy and speed made me feel a little better about the amount offered. The only thing that gave me pause was the drop-off location—a remote boatyard east of Tallahassee.
The pickup spot sealed it, though. I’d been to the same building several times before, so I knew they dealt in tech of some kind. And had gobs of money, judging by their mirrored glass and steel headquarters that had a ridiculous amount of marble inside and a sculpture in the middle of the lobby that probably cost more than my car.
Reminding myself that I’d never had an issue with a job for this broker, I accepted the offer, gave them a timeframe for when I expected to arrive at the boatyard, and got ready to head out.
My nerves eased a little as I walked in like I belonged, bypassed the elevator bank, and headed straight for the front desk. The receptionist’s smile was polite but impersonal. “How can I help you today?”
I kept my voice low. “Pickup code nine-seven-six.”
My lack of greeting didn’t bother her. She just tapped the glass countertop and requested, “Scan in here, please.”
I reached into my jacket and pulled out my burner phone. I kept it in a locker at a gym across town from my house. I didn’t even work out there, but the manager was happy to let me use the locker as long as I slipped him fifty bucks every month.
I pulled up the QR code sent by the broker and held the screen over the embedded scanner. The device beeped once.
The receptionist turned, crouched beneath the desk, and came back up with a slim, brown-paper-wrapped package. There was no label or markings of any kind.
“Thanks.” I accepted it from her and walked out.
Keeping my focus on the ten grand, I didn’t hesitate as I hopped in my car and turned toward the outskirts of the city, heading straight for the drop.
Traffic was light, so I reached the boatyard fifteen minutes early. Being ahead of schedule gave me time to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
I cruised past the entrance once, taking note of the long chain-link fence and the wide gate standing open. There was no security booth or cameras I could see. Just open access to anyone who wandered in.
At the corner, I made a slow turn and looped back, scanning my rearview and side mirrors. Nobody was behind me, but I still parked half a block away and walked in. Fishing nets hung like cobwebs from rusting cranes. A few hulking boat hulls sat propped on blocks, their paint flaking in strips. Shadows pooled under the skeletal frame of a half-collapsed warehouse at the far end.
I picked a spot with a clear view of the gate and warehouse door. The package was clutched in my hands, and my burner phone was in easy reach.
I waited for the person described in the posting—red cap and asking for directions to Redline Speedway.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
