Fog rolled in low from the water, thick enough to swallow sound. The docks slept uneasily beneath it. Stacked steel containers looming like silent giants, rain slicking the asphalt until it gleamed under distant floodlights. Five Fangs moved through the maze as shadows among shadows, footsteps measured, breath controlled.

  “Two small boxes tonight,” Trella murmured over comms. “Numbers match Dawson’s intel. Samira, you’ve got eyes?”

  “Confirmed,” Samira replied from the van. “Yard’s quiet. One patrol truck along the south fence.”

  “Then let’s make it fast,” Maya said.

  They open the first container. Inside, everything was neatly packed. Carbon-fiber spools, chipsets and prosthetic joints.

  Anya let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Just hardware again.”

  Trella slaps a tracker onto a crate and seals it. The team creeps to the second container. Trella cracks the seal, then freezes. Five gaunt faces blink at the sudden light. Terrified Chinese teenagers, 14–15 years old. One lies motionless under a blanket. For a moment, no one breathes.

  “Oh no…” Aiko whispered.

  The scared captives huddle tighter. Mei-Ling stepped forward slowly, lowering herself to their level, her voice was gentle as she spoke in Mandarin. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help. Are you okay?”

  One girl whispers back. Mei-Ling translates quietly for the team. “They’re from rural Henan. They were promised scholarships. Ended up locked in here instead. They’ve been without water for days. Sun-Hi, the one who didn’t make it, died yesterday.

  Trella hands over her canteen. The captives drink greedily.

  “We can’t just close this box and walk away,” Anya hissed.

  “But if we pull them out,” Trella replied, voice low and strained, “the traffickers know we’re onto them. The trail dies here.”

  Mei-Ling met her eyes, steady and unflinching. “Then let me go with them. I can blend in. I am their age. I speak their language. I’ll plant another tracker inside. I can see where they take us.”

  “No,” Trella snapped. “Absolutely not. You’ll be alone. Unarmed—”

  “I’ll hide the blades. You’ll follow the container anyway. But if I’m inside, you’ll have the surprise on your side.”

  Rain dripped from Trella’s hood. The distant hum of machinery filled the space between them.

  “Damn it, Mei… This isn’t training,” Trella said finally, voice rough. “They’ll kill you if they suspect anything.”

  “And if we do nothing,” Mei-Ling replied quietly, “more Sun-His die.”

  She turns to the captives in Mandarin, explains the plan and gains their silent nods. She sheds her tac gear, hands over her comms and pistol. Trella presses a small tracker into her palm. Mei-Ling tapes it under the container’s inner seam, tucks two throwing knives under her borrowed sweater, and hides her kukris in a gap behind the crates for later retrieval.

  “Don’t be a hero in there,” Aiko said quietly, almost pleading.

  Mei-Ling smiled faintly. “Too late.”

  Trella sealed the door. The metal clang echoes like a gunshot. Outside, the team backs away, watching the container lift onto a truck with their friend inside among the terrified captives. In the van, the blinking tracker moves off into the night toward Baltimore.

  ***

  Back in the orphanage's ops room Talia is bent over three monitors, coding scripts to scrape port logs. Michelle paces, phone in hand. “He’s going to hate this… but better to warn him before a federal task force gets blindsided.”

  She dials. The line clicks—Agent Williams answers groggily. “Michelle? It’s two-thirty in the—”

  “Dad, you’re about to get busy. The Fangs are tailing a trafficking shipment into Baltimore. Mei-Ling went undercover with the captives. Live op, right now.”

  Agent Williams almost choked on his coffee. “They’re doing what?! Are you all completely bananas?!”

  “Probably. But if they’re right, this shipment connects Schmidt’s network to the traffickers. You said you wanted actionable intel, here it is.”

  Drawers slammed on the other end.

  “Text me their location,” Williams said. “ And, Michelle—stay put. Do not follow them.”

  “Relax, Dad. Talia and I are babysitting the monitors.”

  She ends the call, exhales, and meets Talia’s raised eyebrow.

  “So,” Talia said flatly, “we’ve officially gone bananas?”

  Michelle smiled grimly. “Big, juicy ones.”

  ***

  The sodium lamps outside flicker. Inside, a dozen traffickers take their time unloading the girls. They line the captives against a stack of crates, the smell of oil and saltwater is clinging to the air.

  Mei-Ling blends in perfectly. Barefoot, hair a mess, chin tucked. Her kukris are hidden under a broken pallet near the corner. A thin tracker is taped inside her sleeve. One of the goons counts heads lazily. In the meantime two vans roll silent to a stop a block away. Samira’s drone feeds flicker on a tablet. Trella kneels beside Maya, studying the screen. “Two guards at the north door, one smoking by the trucks. The boss is inside.”

  Aya’s voice crackles quietly over comms from team two’s van. “Amelie and I are ready. Just say the word.”

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  Aiko slips through shadows, katana strapped tight. Anya crawls beneath a parked semi, clips a suppressor to her Uzi, and puts two rounds into a truck engine. Silent sparks pop under the hood.

  Inside one guard steps out for a call. Another yawns and leans against a crate. Mei-Ling drops the tracker to a pallet stack as she adjusts her stance, then glances at a high skylight camera. The drone feed catches her subtle hand gesture: a quick circle with her thumb and forefinger.

  “Signal received,” Trella whispered. “On my mark…”

  Aiko silently takes the rear guard. Blade flash, then a soft thud.

  “Go.”

  Amelie and Aya hit the south door first. Amelie’s BAR spits controlled bursts, shredding a forklift. Aya’s grenade launcher thunks, a flashbang blinds the nearest goons. Trella and Aiko smash through the north door, low and fast. Anya rolls out from under the semi, twin Uzis screaming in short, precise bursts. The warehouse erupts, crates splinter, alarms wail. Mei-Ling yanks two throw knives from her hidden sleeve as several men rush in from the far entrance. One barks. “Guys, get the goods out of here! We have a breach!”

  Mei-Ling steps from the line, devilish smile cutting across her dirt-streaked face. “You sure have.”

  She throws her knives, two goons drop before they can raise their rifles.

  She spins toward the cowering captives. In flawless Mandarin she shouts “Get down!”

  The girls hit the floor just as Trella’s shotgun roars past them, blasting a guard off his feet. Trella and Aiko push toward the hostages, covering Mei-Ling. Maya blocks a truck exit with the van. Then Samira’s voice shouts on the radio. “More movement on the west side! Two are trying to slip out with a crate!”

  Aya fires a 40mm round—the crate explodes into splinters. Amelie lays down suppressive fire. Within moments, the last few traffickers are down or fleeing into the night. The hostages sob but unharmed. Mei-Ling gathers them quickly, still speaking in Mandarin. “Stay low. Follow me.”

  Trella sweeps the floor, her voice steady but edged. “Anya, Aya, secure the perimeter. Maya, get the van ready. Nobody vanishes tonight.”

  The team moves with precision, calm amid chaos, ensuring every survivor is accounted for and the scene is locked down. The trap has sprung flawlessly.

  A single bulb swings above, throwing jittery shadows across the walls. Two captured traffickers are zip-tied on the floor, their faces pale with fear. Trella leans against the doorway, shotgun across her chest. Aya looms just behind her like a boulder in human form. Anya and Aiko guard the exits. Amelie sits backward on a chair, cool and deliberate, while Mei-Ling stands close, her tattered captive disguise still on but her kukri are glinting in her hands.

  Samira’s voice crackles softly over comms. “Williams is five minutes out. Get what you need.”

  Trella’s voice is calm but razor-edged. “Talk. Now. Or you’ll be explaining your life choices to federal agents who don’t like paperwork.”

  One trafficker swallows hard. “We… We just move cargo. We’re nobodies.”

  Mei-Ling slams her kukri into the table beside him. The blade quivers, inches from his wrist. “Nobodies don’t ship terrified girls halfway around the world. Name. Now.”

  The second trafficker breaks. “Charlie Sung! He runs the ring here. We don’t see him, he keeps distance. All we do is move the containers and get paid.”

  Amelie’s eyes meet his. “Where do you make contact?”

  “There’s a warehouse contact in Baltimore, but Sung moves around—Vegas, Atlanta… Nobody knows for sure. You find that warehouse’s boss, maybe you find him.

  Aya steps forward, her shadow swallowing the two men. “Who else is dirty at the port?”

  “Different inspectors, different shifts. Names change. Sung keeps it moving so nobody connects the dots.”

  Trella glances at Mei-Ling, then back at the men. “That’s enough for tonight. Williams will handle the rest.”

  The traffickers’ eyes widened. “You—you’re turning us over? Sung will kill us!”

  Amelie’s voice is ice. “Should’ve thought of that before you stuffed kids into containers.”

  Outside, engine noise grows—Williams’ vehicles arriving. Trella gives a small nod.

  "Everyone, fall back. Let’s give them a clean hand-off."

  The Fangs step out into the loading dock, weapons low but ready, as headlights sweep the yard. The first real thread to Charlie Sung and the shadowy network behind him has been pulled.

  ***

  The girls gather in a makeshift operations room in a CIA Safehouse. A long table is cluttered with laptops, coffee cups, and printouts. Maps of Baltimore and shipping routes are taped to the walls. The rescued Chinese girls are in the next room with medics; the air in here hums with quiet urgency. Williams stands at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled. He’s a man who’s seen plenty, but even he looks rattled. All girls are there, the nerd club in the orphanage is connected live.

  “Alright. First things first. You girls pulled off a miracle tonight. Six lives saved. Five, technically, but that sixth one doesn’t vanish without a fight and a major pipeline disrupted. That said… “ He lays down a photo on the table, a grainy shot of a middle-aged Asian man in a suit, sunglasses, and a cold smile. “This is Charlie Sung.”

  “The same Sung the traffickers named?” Trella asked.

  Williams nodded. “Yeah. He’s the one pulling Tri-Star’s strings from the shadows. He’s not a flashy cartel boss, more like a ghost in a boardroom. Smart enough to stay invisible, ruthless enough to keep the pipeline running. Officially, he doesn’t exist. No priors, no business holdings under his name. But make no mistake: Sung is Tri-Star.”

  “So he’s the first boss we can actually hit without the world noticing,” Trella said grimly.

  “Exactly,” Williams said. “Taking Sung off the board won’t start a media storm. Tri-Star’s dirty laundry isn’t public. But it’ll send shockwaves through the supply chain these cyborg labs rely on.”

  Maya crossed her arms. “You said he moves around Vegas and Atlanta. How do we pin him?”

  Williams taps another map. “We trace his cash flow. Sung has to touch down somewhere to launder profits. There’s chatter about a Tri-Star warehouse in Savannah acting as a relay point. Surveillance teams are moving into position, but they’ll need a trigger. Something only you girls can provide.”

  Maya didn’t hesitate. “Meaning bait.”

  “Meaning intel,” Williams corrected. “You’ve already proven you can get close without blowing alarms. You’re ghosts when you need to be. But Sung will be more careful after tonight. If you choose to go after him, this isn’t smash-and-grab. It’s chess.”

  Aya grins darkly.”Good. I like chess.”

  “We coordinate quietly,” Williams continued. “No official ops, that would be too much risk. You feed us locations, we move in when the time is right. But the takedown? That has to be surgical. One misstep and he vanishes.”

  Trella exchanges glances with Mei-Ling, then with the rest. “The next move is clear: Sung is real, reachable, and dangerous. We need to take him out.”

  Michelle’s face flickered onto the monitor from the orphanage, her eyes sharp behind the screen’s glow. “Alright, we know Sung’s name, we know Tri-Star bleeds through Savannah and Baltimore and dad will cover official channels. But Sung’s too slippery for the Bureau’s net. We have to hunt him on our terms.”

  Maya nodded. “If he’s as careful as Williams says, he’ll avoid major cities. My bet? Satellite hubs. Places that don’t draw eyes.”

  Talia’s voice chimed in remotely. “Then the cash flow is key. He can’t move products without moving money. Follow the money, follow the meat.”

  Aiko spoke quietly. “He’ll suspect trackers now. No more easy plants.”

  Anya tilted her head. “So we bait him into a routine. Force him to move something urgent. Make him slip.”

  “We’ve got recon on the Savannah warehouse,” Maya added. “If Sung shows up in person to check security after tonight’s mess, that’s our shot. But we can’t all be there. Too much noise.”

  Mei-Ling stepped in, her resolve was clear in her voice. “I can blend in again. Mandarin works. But if he’s Tri-Star’s ghost, he’ll watch new faces. We need a reason for him to show up.”

  Trella didn’t hesitate. “So we set up a fake leak. Make him think one of his own is skimming shipments or blabbing. We ‘accidentally’ leave a trail, subtle enough to pull him in but not enough to spook him.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll dig into medical supply chains tied to SimCor. Any anomaly could hint at the lab’s location,” Milena said.

  Amelie smirked faintly. “And if Sung gets suspicious?”

  Trella’s answer was immediate. “Then we adapt. Fast.”

  The projector hums as Trella changes slides. Warehouse layouts, Savannah docks, recent Tri-Star movements. The room felt less like a briefing now and more like a war council. The mood is tense but electric: a hunting party preparing its traps.