Page 26 of Veil of Ashes

The drop spot is a half-mile east, in the bones of a freight office behind a defunct train station. Rust curls around the metal doors, and the chain-link fence out front still sports a NO TRESPASSING sign from 1999. I climb through the gap near the east wall, ignoring the way the barbed wire catches my sleeve.

Inside, it’s dust and ghosts. Pigeons scatter when I open the door, wings flapping against rafters like soft gunshots. The locker’s against the far wall—number 38. Same as always.

The key slips in. I pop the door open and slide the pouch inside. Lock it again.

The metal creaks, but the weight settles in my chest.

Done.

I walk out without looking back.

The diner sits three blocks down. Neon signs sputter above the windows—one of the N’s is missing, so it just says DIER now. I always thought that was poetic.

It reeks of grease and betrayal. My favorite scent.

I take the booth in the back, facing the door. Always the same spot. Always eyes on the exits. The waitress—a woman I’ve never seen before—drops a chipped mug and pours burnt coffee into it without a word.

I nod.

Three minutes later, the contact slides into the booth across from me.

He’s jumpy. Wiry frame, thick eyebrows, a scar over his lip that pulls when he talks. I don’t know his name. That’s how I prefer it.

“Locker’s loaded,” I say. “Thirty-eight.”

He nods, but his fingers twitch. His knee bounces.

“Keys under the napkin,” I say.

He reaches, but not before glancing around the room.

My instincts scream.

He’s not calm. Not controlled. His throat works harder than it should when he swallows. His eyes never quite meet mine.

He didn’t meet my eyes, I think. His hands shook. And I’ve lived too long not to listen to tremors.

I slide out of the booth.

“Where are you—?”

“Back door,” I say. “Enjoy the coffee.”

The alley behind the diner is narrow. Walls on both sides. Grease-slick trash bins. A neon sign buzzes above, casting a weak red sheen over puddles and cardboard boxes. I duck low and cut between the buildings.

Two blocks east is my old safehouse—condemned on paper, wired on reality. If the drop went bad, I need a fallback.

I’m halfway between the diner and my fallback route when the world slams shut.

Two shadows drop in behind me. No footfalls. No warning. Just pressure in the air and instincts screaming in my chest. I spin, hand reaching under my coat—too late.

The first one grabs me from behind, wrenching my arm up as a second figure lunges from the side, a flash of silver aimed for my ribs.

Professional. Masked. No words.

Not muggers. Not cops.

They came for me.

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