Page 10 of Damian
“Luthor uses covers that seem legitimate,” he said. “Charities, logistics, companies with plausible spreadsheets and implausible empathy.”
“I thought it was sloppy,” I said, the words tasting foolish. “That they were leaving breadcrumbs.”
“It’s not sloppy,” Damian corrected. “It’s deliberate. Bread crumbs keep those who follow thinking they’re hunting something simple. They wait until you bend down to pick them up.”
The recorder in my pocket blinked red—I'd forgotten to switch it off. My stomach dropped. I liked to keep my mumblings private; they felt personal and safe. I’d been careless.
He glanced at the light, then at me. For a second I feared the reprimand I would have given myself. Instead, his jaw softened like he was making a decision.
“You said J. Hemsley,” he said. “Pull everything on them. Cyclone will want to know.”
I nodded, fingers numb with relief that he didn’t mock the quirk. “I will. And—” My voice tightened so I swallowed it and forced the sentence out clean. “There’s more. Caldwell showed up on a manifest tied to a charity event in Brighton last year. The attendees list included a retired naval contractor. I cross-referenced the contractor’s name—he’s gone dark. No social profiles, no address, but there’s a rumor he worked shipments through the same hub months ago.”
“Brighton?” Damian’s brow pulled. “We’re not in the UK for this. Too clean. Too many players.”
“You said Luthor picks anyone,” I said, the memory of his name like grit under my tongue. “He doesn’t care who’s on the receiving end. He’ll use whatever gets the product where he wants it.”
“Which means nothing is off-limits,” he said, voice low. “No charity is above suspicion, no quiet contractor safe.That’s the structure of predators like him. They rely on complacency.”
I tapped the photograph again, tracing the blurred edges with one finger like I could make clarity come through pressure.
“I want to check the charity mailing lists,” I said. “I can find donors, cross-check addresses with the manifests. People give to charity and forget. That forgetfulness keeps their trail clean.”
Damian looked at me then, and it was like the first time he’d seen me note patterns in the warehouse manifest—an appraisal, then a nod. “Do it. But you route everything through Cyclone. One channel.”
“And if I find something big?” My voice shook, not from fear this time but from the possibility.
“You tell me,” he said. “You tell Cyclone. You don’t act on it alone. Promise me.”
I promised. The word felt heavier than it should.
He left then, boots soft on the floor, and I bent back over the stack. I made the charity list my world until my eyes blurred and my hand cramped from writing. For every donor I found, I put a sticky note—addresses, phone numbers, oddities. For every oddity, I made a query:Is their generosity public? Did they declare staff? Any connections to shipping?My pen moved like a metronome, steady and relentless.
At some point, Cyclone eased onto the chair opposite me, laptop balanced on the table. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
“You’re getting good at this,” he observed in that flat, half-amused way he always had. “You see things most people don’t.”
My cheeks warmed with something that could have been pride. “I’m scared I’m missing something.”
“You will,” he said. “We all do. The trick is to miss less.”
Around noon, River popped his head in, carrying a takeout box like some comic relief angel. He tossed a packet of crisps onto the table and shot me a grin. “You look like a woman who hasn’t eaten in two days. Eat.”
I laughed then, real, and the sound surprised me with how true it felt.
Later, when the sun tugged toward evening, Damian re-entered with a small, folded piece of paper. His face was closed—businesslike. He put the paper beside my pile.
“It came in late,” he said. “Courier drop, anonymous. Looks like a receipt. Partial manifest. Thought you’d want it.”
I unfolded it with fingers that had stopped trembling. There it was: a list of pallet numbers and a partial route—Node 4 — transfer to Hub 9. Hub 9 wasn’t on our maps. Not yet. It was a name that could mean a warehouse, a pier, a freight broker’s nickname. It was a place in the system.
My breath hitched. “This could be it,” I said.
“Or it could be a trap,” Cyclone said, dry as a bone.
“Either way,” I whispered into the recorder because old habits anchor me, “Hub 9 exists now. A notch on the map.”
Damian’s hand hovered over the paper like a guardian. “We move carefully. No rash steps. Have you finished the charity list?”
