«She’s not gone,» the Black girl whispered, and the man’s heart lurched, disbelief giving way to a chilling truth as he dug deeper

Something about the smile on Elena’s face looked different than the woman she saw that night. Stronger, more open. But now, there was fear behind her eyes.

Still, Maya turned as Elena’s voice called out faintly, Come here, sweetheart. Maya entered the room, where Elena sat up slightly. Her face was pale, but her gaze was sharp.

They’ll come again, she said. You understand that, don’t you? Maya nodded. They already tried.

Elena’s hand found hers. This isn’t just about me anymore. They saw you.

They’ll want to silence you, too. Maya looked down. Then let them come.

I’m not scared. Elena smiled. That’s what scares them.

Downstairs, Thomas prepared a go-bag satellite phone, encrypted flash drives, Glock 17, extra magazines. His heart felt heavier than ever. Elena was home, but the storm hadn’t passed.

It had simply changed direction. By evening, the team was en route to Louisiana, where the last operational outpost stood on the edge of a forgotten bayou. It wasn’t on any modern maps built decades ago as a weather station, then sold to a private firm.

No roads, only swamp and silence. They landed via private chopper two miles out, finishing the journey by boat. The facility loomed from the mist-gray, square, soulless, two towers, one dock.

No guards visible, but Thomas knew better than to trust appearances. Inside the boat, Reese loaded his weapon. No mistakes tonight, Thomas nodded.

We go in, get the servers, and get out. No heroics. But as they disembarked, Maya’s voice crackled through the headset.

She’d stayed behind at the surveillance van with a comms tech. Thomas, I see something. Northwest corner of the building.

There’s movement. Thomas crouched behind a pile of crates. Details? A man.

Armed. Talking to someone through an earpiece. I think they’re evacuating files.

Thomas cursed. They knew we were coming. Then we move now, Reese said.

They advanced in tight formation, neutralizing two guards at the perimeter. Inside, rows of servers blinked in blue and green. Thomas made for the data core, inserting an encrypted drive.

Files began copying. In the corner of the room, a shadow moved. Drop it, Reese barked.

The figure froze young. Terrified. Arms in the air.

I’m just the tech. I don’t know anything. Thomas stepped forward.

How long has the site been active? Six months. They bring crates. Never open them.

We just process IDs. What kind of IDs? Immigration falsified papers. I swear I never asked questions.

The files completed. Thomas yanked the drive. Get out.

Outside, floodlights cut through the fog. Another boat arrived, figures disembarking quickly. Go now, Reese shouted.

They sprinted back to the dock as gunfire cracked the silence. Bullets splintered wood, sparked off metal. Thomas dove behind a barrel, returning fire.

Then, through the headset, Maya’s voice. Left side there’s a path through the reeds. GPS shows a narrow inlet.

You can escape that way. They followed her lead, running low through the marsh. Shots echoed behind them, but none followed.

Within minutes, they were back at the extraction point, soaked, breathless, alive. In the van, Maya watched their dots converge on the map and exhaled. They made it.

Back at the estate, Thomas placed the encrypted drive on his desk. This ends soon. Elena, standing behind him, said, Number, this begins now.

And beside them, Maya whispered, Let’s burn it all down. The file decrypted at 3.14 a.m. Thomas, Elena, and Reese hovered around the massive screen in the estate’s secure room, eyes locked on the scrolling data. Names.

Bank transfers. Images grainy. Timestamped photos of shipping containers.

Clandestine meetings. And fake passports. Elena leaned against the back of Thomas’s chair, her breath shallow but steady, her eyes sharpened by clarity and rage.

This is it, she whispered. Everything I tried to expose. Reese scrolled to the next folder.

There’s more. Look at this. A list appeared.

Locations. Dates. Next shipments.

Dozens of them routes disguised as disaster relief, as environmental research. All tied to the same symbol. The black triangle.

Thomas stood. How many people have they trafficked through this? Hundreds, Reese said grimly. Maybe more.

Maya entered the room, holding a steaming cup of tea for Elena. Her hoodie sleeves were rolled up, showing small ink marks where she’d been taking notes of her own. I found something, she said.

One of the names on the list showed up in a news article last year. A woman named Leora Bensley disappeared while covering a story on corruption in Honduras. Elena froze.

I remember her. She contacted me once. Said she had something explosive.

Then she vanished. Thomas glanced at Reese. Can we find her? I don’t know.

But the file says she was seen near an offshore station off Miami six months ago. Thomas looked at Maya. You want to go with us? Maya didn’t blink.

I need to. Um. That afternoon, they flew to Miami under assumed names.

Elena stayed behind still recovering, still watched over. But Thomas and Maya, now shadow and fire, moved swiftly. The offshore station was technically an oceanic climate research facility.

But when they arrived via rented catamaran, it looked like anything but. Rusted towers, masked guards, and no research equipment in sight. They docked half a mile away, then swam the rest under cover of darkness…