The clock ticked past 11:48 PM.
Lena crouched behind a shipping container just outside Warehouse 17, her black hoodie zipped up to her chin, hair tucked beneath a cap. The moonlight was soft tonight—perfect cover.
She watched the guards pacing. Just two. Lazy. Distracted. No cameras she could see. Sloppy.
Lena
“You trust the dark too much, Ivan.” Her voice was a whisper, laced with excitement.
When one of the guards stepped away to smoke, she slipped between shadows and ducked inside through a side door left propped open by a rock.
Inside was colder than expected. Stacks of crates lined the walls, all marked with codes, no labels.
She moved like a ghost, weaving through metal and wood, footsteps silent.
She stopped by a half-open crate, peeking inside.
Weapons. High-grade. Clean.
And another—money. Fresh bills, foreign currency.
Lena
Lena crouched beside the boxes, pulling out her phone to snap silent pictures. Then, from her pocket, she took a playing card—the queen of hearts.
She turned it over and wrote with a red pen:
> “Someone’s always watching. Careful who you trust, Volk.”
She slid it under a sealed crate, barely sticking out. Just enough to be found if someone was careful.
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