Chapter 8 - Midnight Freight and Broken OathsBy midnight, a freezing rain had begun to pelt the open railway yards at Port Huron. The towering diesel locomotives idled on the tracks, their massive exhaust stacks venting white clouds of steam into the freezing night air while yellow overhead halogen lights cast long, distorted shadows across the gravel beds.
I sat in the secure command console of the mobile dispatch van parked beside Track 4, my fingers flying across dual monitors as I monitored live telemetry feeds from the targeted freight cars.
“The primary shipment is rolling out of the marshaling yard on schedule,” I reported over the encrypted comm-link to Christian and his tactical unit positioned near the northern switch towers. “GPS telemetry shows unauthorized interference on Freight Car 412. Someone just patched into the manual pneumatic brake line.”
“I see them,” Christian’s deep, calm voice came back through the earpiece. “Three men in high-vis vests by the third gantry. They’re trying to decouple the cargo manifest.”
Through the infrared security feed on my left monitor, I watched as Marcus Vance himself—soaked to the skin, his expensive camel-hair coat ruined by mud and grease—crawled between two rolling freight cars, frantically trying to splice a forged digital manifest into the train’s onboard computer box.
“Marcus is trying to plant the counterfeit smuggling files,” I warned. “If he locks that fake manifest into the central registry, the automated customs system will automatically flag Thorne Logistics for federal quarantine.”
“Not today,” Christian replied coldly.
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Before Marcus could tighten the final data cable, the entire railyard was suddenly flooded with blinding white light as six armored Thorne Logistics transport trucks converged from the access roads, boxing in the railway spur on all sides.
Armed security teams fanned out with military precision, cutting off every escape route.
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