Page 70 of South of Justice

“Sleeping?” Ryan asked.

“Maybe. Or waiting.”

The decoder beeped. Green.

Ryan exchanged a look with Gates. They both understood: once they crossed that threshold, it was game on.

He grasped the door handle, breath steady.

“Ready,” he whispered.

Lucía’s voice: “Timer starts now.”

And with that, they slipped into the dark.

Ryan crouched beside a rusted barrel, his breath coming low and steady as he scanned the warehouse wall. In his ear, Lucía’s voice: soft, precise, tethering. “Northwest quadrant is still blind. Your entry window is about ninety seconds. Perimeter guards have begun rotation. No new signals.”

“Copy,” Ryan muttered.

Gates stood a few feet away, checking his watch. Reyes was already slipping through shadow, moving toward the fuel storage tanks along the western fence. That’s where the distraction would go down. Not flashy enough to call in reinforcements, but loud enough to make security take notice.

Lucía’s voice again, cooler this time: “Heat bloom near the motor pool. One… No, two guards heading west.”

“Reyes,” Gates said into his comm. “Light it. Now.”

Three seconds later, the quiet cracked with a dull whump. A flash of orange lit the far side of the compound, followedby a column of smoke and shouting in Spanish. Boots scraped pavement, voices barked orders.

“That’s our cue,” Gates said.

Ryan moved first, low and fast. They skirted along the corrugated siding of the warehouse, each footstep calculated. At the service entrance, Gates rested his hand on the door handle and gave a subtle nod.

Ryan took point. The keypad had already been disabled by Lucía on the boat, and the moment the latch clicked, he eased the door open. Darkness inside. The smell of solvents and mold.

Inside, rows of dusty crates stacked high, forklifts idle in the corners. No guards in sight.

“Clear,” Ryan whispered.

They slipped in, weapons raised. Gates motioned with two fingers, sweeping left. Ryan mirrored right, sweeping between crates, eyes sharp.

Lucía’s voice returned. “Perimeter’s thinning. One signal headed toward your sector, but he’s not close. You’ve got about four minutes before full comms come back online.”

Ryan moved deeper into the shadows, past crates stamped with false shipping codes. Each step was muscle memory, the old rhythm of tactical movement, reignited.

Then: footsteps. Muffled. Close. Gates paused at a corner, raised a fist. Ryan held.

A guard rounded the corner, rifle low.

Pfft. The guard crumpled before he could speak. Silencer smoke curled from Gates’s weapon.

Ryan exhaled and moved forward. They were close now.

Lucía again, this time with urgency: “One of the perimeter guards just turned back. He’ll be at your twelve in thirty seconds.”

“Copy,” Ryan said.

He signaled Gates. They picked up speed.

Beyond the final stack of crates: a secured interior door. Heavy-duty. Likely where they’d stash sensitive cargo—or a child they didn’t want anyone to see.