The map on Kai’s screen was lit up in shifting blue squares, each one marking a camera feed.

  He zoomed in on a cluster of them near the docks in Kwai Tsing, the angles grainy but clear enough to catch shadows of men moving in and out of a warehouse.

  Lian leaned over his shoulder, arms crossed. The air inside the van smelled of instant coffee and damp jackets.

  “How many?” she asked.

  Kai tapped a key, flipping between feeds. “Six, maybe seven on rotation outside. Could be more inside.”

  “Cargo?”

  He hesitated, then pulled up a still frame. A truck backed up to the warehouse, its rear doors open. Figures were being pushed out. Small, thin, heads down. Children.

  Lian’s jaw tightened. “How soon?”

  “Tonight. They’re moving them before sunrise.”

  Her hand rested on the table beside the laptop, fingers tapping once. “We go in.”

  Kai looked up at her. His eyes were tired, but steady. “It’s a lot of men.”

  “You think I care?”

  “I think you should.”

  For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Lian’s gaze softened, just slightly. “You stay on eyes. I’ll move inside.”

  “Not alone.”

  She smirked faintly. “You going to pick up a gun, then?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Then stay here.”

  It was an old argument, one neither ever won. She trusted his tech, his voice in her ear, but she trusted her knife more.

  By midnight, the van was parked two blocks away from the docks. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and diesel, fog rolling in from the harbor. Container cranes loomed like skeletons against the sky.

  Lian pulled on a black jacket, tied her hair back, and slid her knives into place.

  Kai adjusted the comms in her ear. “Channel’s clear. I’ll keep you updated.”

  She gave him a nod and slipped into the night.

  The warehouse sat at the edge of the docks, its corrugated metal walls streaked with rust. Two guards smoked outside the main door, their laughter carrying faintly in the humid air.

  Lian crouched behind a stack of containers, watching. Their posture was lazy, but their pistols were real enough. She waited until one turned his head to spit, then moved.

  Her footsteps were silent against the wet ground. She came up behind the first man, one arm hooking around his throat, knife sliding across before he could draw breath. The second turned, eyes widening, but the blade caught him low in the stomach, dragging upward as she covered his mouth.

  Two bodies lowered to the ground without a sound.

  “In,” she whispered.

  “Two more on the catwalk above,” Kai’s voice came softly in her ear. “One’s pacing. Other is leaning over the rail.”

  She slipped through the door, the interior dimly lit by hanging bulbs. The smell hit her first—sweat, fear, the sharp sting of chemicals. Wooden crates were stacked high, but in one corner, a group of children huddled behind metal bars, faces pale, eyes wide.

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  Lian’s throat tightened.

  Movement above. She glanced up. A guard leaned on the catwalk rail, bored, his rifle hanging loose. Another paced slowly, humming to himself.

  “Talk me through,” she murmured.

  “Now,” Kai said.

  She threw the knife. It spun once, catching the leaning guard in the throat. Before his body hit the rail, she was already climbing the ladder, blade pulled from her belt. The pacing guard turned, confusion flashing across his face before steel cut it short.

  Blood sprayed against the catwalk rail, dripping onto crates below.

  “Clear,” she whispered.

  “Not yet,” Kai’s voice warned. “Two more coming from the north entrance. Big guys. Guns ready.”

  She cursed under her breath, crouching low.

  The men entered, rifles raised, scanning the space. One shouted in Cantonese. “You hear something?”

  Lian moved along the catwalk, shadows wrapping around her. Her knife gleamed faintly in the hanging light. She dropped silently behind the first man, blade cutting deep across his neck. The second spun, firing wildly. Bullets ripped through crates, splinters flying.

  Lian ducked low, rolling behind a pillar as the gunfire echoed.

  “Left, left,” Kai hissed in her ear.

  She darted out, closing the distance before he could adjust. The knife plunged into his side, sliding between ribs. He screamed, twisting, gun clattering to the floor. She yanked the blade free, then silenced him with a second strike.

  The warehouse went still.

  Breathing hard, Lian scanned the floor. The children were watching her now, eyes wide, some crying silently. She crouched near the bars, wiping blood from her blade.

  “It’s okay,” she said softly, though she knew the words meant little. “You’re safe now.”

  “More inbound,” Kai said quickly. “Truck just pulled up. Four men, all armed.”

  She looked back at the children, then at the door. Her grip tightened on the knife.

  “Can you jam the lights?”

  “On it.”

  The bulbs flickered, then went out, plunging the warehouse into darkness. The only light came from the faint glow of the docks outside.

  The door slammed open. Flashlights cut through the dark, beams sweeping.

  Lian waited in the shadows, listening to the footsteps, the muttered voices. One beam passed inches from her face, but she stayed still.

  Then she moved.

  The first man never saw the blade until it was in his chest. She grabbed his flashlight, swung it hard into the face of the second, bone crunching under the blow. Gunfire erupted, deafening in the enclosed space.

  She dropped low, sliding across the slick floor, knife flashing as she cut at legs. One man screamed, falling hard. Another fired blindly, bullets tearing into crates.

  “Three down,” Kai’s voice came calm in her ear. “One left.”

  She rolled behind a stack of boxes, heart pounding. The last man was breathing hard, flashlight beam shaking as it searched.

  She waited until he passed, then rose silently, wrapping her arm around his neck, knife pressing deep. His body jerked, then stilled.

  Silence returned, heavy and final.

  Lian stood still for a moment, chest heaving, the copper tang of blood thick in the air. Then she turned back to the children.

  The lock was simple. One strike of the blade snapped it open. The bars creaked, and the group huddled tighter, unsure.

  “It’s done,” she said softly. “Come out.”

  They hesitated, eyes darting to the bodies scattered across the floor. Finally, one boy stepped forward, thin and shaking. He looked up at her, lips trembling.

  “Go,” she urged gently. “Now.”

  Kai’s voice broke through. “Police chatter is picking up. We have minutes, maybe less.”

  Lian guided the children toward the side exit, moving quickly but steady. Outside, the rain had started again, soft this time, pattering against the pavement.

  Kai was waiting with the van. He jumped out, ushering the children inside, his face calm but his hands moving fast.

  “In, in, hurry,” he urged, switching to Cantonese so they would understand. “You’re safe now.”

  One by one, they climbed in, huddling together. Lian helped the last one inside, then shut the door.

  “Go,” she said.

  Kai slammed the van into gear, tires screeching as they pulled away from the docks.

  Inside, the children whispered softly, clinging to one another. Lian sat near them, blood still drying on her hands, her knife tucked back at her side.

  She glanced at Kai. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the road.

  They didn’t speak until they were clear of the docks, the city lights stretching wide ahead of them.

  Then Lian let out a slow breath. “It’s done.”

  Kai nodded, not looking away from the road. “Yeah.”

  The van rattled through the wet streets, carrying them away from the warehouse, from the blood, from another night in the city’s shadows.