As they prepared to part ways, Immani's trained eye caught movement across the street. A county cruiser sat silent in the shadows of a closed gas station. Its engine was cold, but its occupant was alert. Watching.
Waiting. The first rays of dawn hadn't yet touched the horizon when Immani parked her rig behind an abandoned warehouse. Mina's camera light cast an artificial glow across the trailer's rear doors as they documented every detail of the untampered seal. "Getting clear footage of the numbers," Mina whispered.
"Show me exactly how you're breaking it." Immani held up the seal cutters. "Notice the original closure is intact. No signs of previous tampering."
She snipped through the metal cleanly, the sharp sound echoing off concrete walls. The heavy doors creaked open. Immani swept her flashlight across rows of neatly stacked medical supplies. Bandages, basic instruments, medication bottles in sealed containers.
Everything matched the manifest perfectly. "This is all legitimate," Mina observed, panning her camera across the cargo. "Real charity shipment, which makes it perfect cover." Immani ran her hands along the trailer's inner wall, finding the subtle seam she had suspected existed.
Her fingers caught a hidden latch, and a false panel popped loose. Tucked inside was a small encrypted drive barely larger than a pack of gum. The label bore a series of numbers and letters that made Immani's jaw tighten. She recognized the formatting used by veterans' nonprofits for sensitive financial data.
"What is it?" Mina asked, focusing on the drive. "Evidence?" Immani held it up to the light. "This connects to county contracts, grant money, the kind of paperwork that shows where millions in public-safety funding really goes."
Mina's eyes widened. She lowered her camera and pulled out her laptop, fingers flying across the keys. "Look at this. I've been tracking Sheriff Van's budget reports."
"Three years ago, his department's funding tripled. Same time period, civilian complaints dropped to zero. Not declined. Vanished completely."
"They weren't just hunting random trucks," Immani said. "They knew exactly what load to target." She pulled out a burner phone, one of several she'd stashed in her rig for emergencies. The number she dialed belonged to a lawyer two counties over, someone who'd helped veterans navigate system abuse before.
"Morgan and Associates," a cautious voice answered. "Need to discuss a Pine Hollow situation," Immani said, using their agreed-upon phrasing. "Interesting timing," the lawyer replied. "State investigator just opened a preliminary look into that jurisdiction."
"Might want to connect with them." Immani's spine tingled with warning. "How preliminary?" "Very recent."
"Within the last 48 hours." Too convenient. Right after her stop. Right after she'd started asking questions.
Immani ended the call, mind racing through implications. The morning news flickered across Mina's laptop screen. Deputy Kyle Brener's face filled the frame, his wrist wrapped in pristine white bandages. The caption read, "Local Deputy Attacked During Routine Stop."