Anthony's voice came through the burner like a blade pressed against calm. "Boss… I think I see Ms. Sienna being transported onto a ship."
I didn't move at first. My whole body froze. Then I started pacing.
"Describe the scene. Everything."
He spoke fast, military-style. "It's a cargo dock, thirty minutes out from the city center. Night shift should've been empty, but I'm counting at least twenty individuals. Suits. Earpieces. Tactical stance. This is coordinated. Government officials, likely from the current World President's side."
My pulse didn't just quicken—it roared. "They're armed?"
"Every last one. And they're moving her like contraband. Not like a civilian, like an asset. The cargo ship's marked for overseas departure—likely a cover for extradition or blacksite detention."
It didn't make sense.
"Why Sienna?" I muttered. "If they wanted leverage, there are easier ways. She's not a political figure. She's not even public-facing."
Anthony responded coolly. "They want you. This is bait."
That part was logical. Cold. Obvious.
But something was off.
I rubbed my temple, gears turning.
"If they learned my identity from the interview, that was just a few hours ago. There's no way they planned a whole operation, mobilized twenty armed officials, and arranged a cargo ship on that short notice."
"Exactly. Which means," Anthony continued, "they either already suspected you, or this was in motion before the broadcast."
My breath caught. A trap—laid before the mask came off. That made this bigger than retaliation.
I lowered my voice. "I need you to do something. Quietly."
"Name it."
"Have personnel keep eyes on Camille and Alexis. No alarms, no alerts. But keep them protected. I'm coming to you."
Anthony's voice was sharp with concern. "Understood. You driving?"
"I'm already moving."
---
The road blurred. Night slicked across the windshield like ink. The city pulsed in the rearview mirror—soft golds and industrial greys—while the outskirts turned into yawning stretches of emptiness. My fingers gripped the wheel too tight.
Sienna.
This wasn't random. This wasn't sloppy. Which meant someone in power wasn't just watching. They were invested.
The people at the top… they didn't panic. They planned. If Sienna was their move, then it meant I was no longer a theory. I was a threat.
My jaw clenched.
I wasn't going to let them do something to her.
---
Anthony was waiting for me by the edge of the shipyard, tucked into the shadows near a stack of rusted containers. He was dressed in black, no insignias, his stance calm but wired.
"You come alone?" he asked.
"For now." I scanned the dim horizon. "Your team?"
"Five more minutes out. Traffic."
A horn sounded in the distance.
Then the low groan of engines warming.
Anthony tensed. "They're starting up."
My gaze darted across the dock. The cargo ship sat like a behemoth under pale floodlights, cables whipping as dock workers began untethering the vessel. Armed personnel moved with military grace—disciplined, quiet. Inside the main hull, I caught a glimpse of a metal container being guarded by two men. I felt her presence like a weight on my ribs.
Without a word, I moved.
Anthony hissed, "Boss—!"
But he followed. Of course he did.
We slipped between crates and crawled beneath a steel loader, ducking low. The ship groaned louder as it began to shift, ropes snapping off like lashes.
We darted up the ramp in the blind spot of a spotlight, just before the last mooring line fell.
Once aboard, we crouched behind a towering steel box, lungs synchronized, breaths shallow.
I could hear footsteps now. Conversations in clipped, coded phrases. Guns clicking into place.
Anthony leaned close. "We have to be extremely careful. All of them are armed. And if Sienna's in there…"
"They won't hesitate."
He nodded grimly. "They have orders. And no telling how far those go."
I was about to agree when everything stopped.
Not literally—but inside me. My heartbeat quieted. My breathing flattened.
Instinct.
Like a sixth sense crawling up my spine.
I lifted a finger. Anthony immediately froze.
We both shifted our weight slowly, peering over the top of the cargo box.
Standing just ten feet away—was a man in a government-issued suit. Sunglasses on despite the night. Cigarette in hand, a thin trail of smoke curling toward the stars.
He wasn't moving.
He hadn't seen us.
Not yet.
But he was close.
Too close.
I didn't breathe. Neither did Anthony.
The man exhaled a puff of smoke. Then tilted his head.
Right toward us.