Page 39 of Isaac

The guy is unaware of the danger lurking just beyond his peripheral vision.

In one swift motion, I wrap my arm around his throat, cutting off his airflow.

"Go to sleep," I whisper in his ear while he’s thrashing in my hold. I can’t see his face and can’t feel what he feels, but I imagine his eyes are wide, panic flaring briefly before he fades into unconsciousness. "Sorry, buddy," I husk out as I gently lower him to the ground, hoping he'll forgive the necessary deceit. "Nothing personal."

With the guard incapacitated and the coast clear, I turn my attention to the locked door of the storage unit. Time is of theessence, but I refuse to let the pressure rush me into making mistakes.

I will my hands to be steady as I work on picking the lock.

One. Two. Three.

Piece of cake.

A few moments later, the lock clicks open, and I exhale a breath. With a final glance over my shoulder to ensure no one's watching, I slip inside the storage unit and close the door behind me, plunging myself into darkness.

A walk in the park, I think to myself, trying to shake off the lingering nerves. Flipping on the small flashlight I brought with me, I sweep its narrow beam across the cluttered space, searching for anything that could further my mission.

Let's see what we've got here.

I cast the light over stacks of cardboard boxes, some sealed and others with their flaps yawning open like tired mouths. A dusty tarp covers an antique-looking motorcycle, and in the corner, a pile of rolled-up rugs leans against the wall.

Flashlight set on one of the boxes, I dig through the rest of them, finding a treasure trove of evidence that the owner of this unit has his hands in. Fake identities, stacks of cash, and even a collection of what appears to be authentic artwork—all hidden away in this unassuming storage unit somewhere on the fringe of the city. All important proof the Bureau would appreciate. Unfortunately, I’m not here to collect intel on the unknown man who owns this unit. I’m here because of Isaac Thoreau.

And then… Jackpot!

My fingers brush against the cold metal of a locked container tucked away at the back of a cluttered shelf. I fish it out from its hiding spot, testing the lock’s strength with a calculated tug.

The lock resists my initial attempt.Playing hard to get, asshole. It isn't until I channel every smidgeon of frustration andknowledge into that tiny piece of metal, does it crumble in defeat against me.

Victory is swift and noisy, the once-guarded mysteries catapulting all over the dark room with each paper flying haphazardly like winged ghosts.

What the hell?

I grab the light and flash it over the spilled documents. My heart goes into my throat, my adrenaline levels spiking.

Passports.

A lot of them.

All foreign.

I drop into a crouch and quickly rifle through them, the taste of anticipated dread tangs bittersweet on my tongue, until I spot Marina's name on one.

I pocket it and rise to my feet, ready to leave.

But the man of law in me hesitates.

You’re not Dallas.

You’re Hawk.

But self-persuasion doesn’t help.

"Ah, shit," I curse under my breath as I grab the rest of the passports and stuff them into my vest pockets, the weight of their importance somehow heavy against my chest.

I'm stuck in a cloudy mess of uncertainty about what's truly happening—what Thoreau is wrapped up in. But there's one fact that slashes through the fog: passports snug in the pockets of foreign nationals belong to them and only them. Navigating life without these pages full of stamps is like swimming against a punishing current or standing at the edge of an abyss with no ground underfoot.

These people are being trafficked to be forced into labor or prostitution or worse—sold to the highest bidder.

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