The wind tore at the edge of the site tarp as Mikhail stared at the sheet of paper in his hands. The note was typed in blocky capitals impersonal, threatening, and soaked at the corners from where rain had already begun to tap against the steel table. He stood just outside the trailer, beneath a floodlight that flickered once before settling into a low hum.
YOU BUILT OVER SOMETHING THAT'S OURS.
Kat approached, breath quick from her run to the lower scaffolding. "Was that from the fire crew? Are they saying it was arson?"
Mikhail didn't look up. "No. This was left at the supply ramp gate." He held the paper out without a word. Kat took it, her eyes scanning quickly.
"Shit." Her tone shifted from concern to something harder. "This is a threat. Why now?"
"Because the pouring is tonight," he said. "They wanted us shaken. Delay it again, maybe."
Kat folded the page and tucked it under her jacket. "We need to show Lars."
"Yeah," Mikhail muttered, but his attention was already drifting toward the concrete pit. Clouds rolled over the ridge beyond the town, heavy and black, moving like a tide. The storm wouldn't wait. "We'll deal with ghosts after the pour."
A gust cut across the yard, sending dust and loose gravel skipping toward the gate. Lars emerged from the trailer, clipboard in one hand, tablet in the other.
"The forecast's gotten worse," he called out, not slowing his stride. "Wind and rain both peaking between one and four a.m."
Mikhail nodded. "Any risk of overflow on the north ramp?"
"Not unless the drainage clogs. I've got Erik checking the filters."
"Good. We'll reroute the first batch of trucks through the east loop. No more uphill reverses after what happened to the third rig yesterday."
Kat held out the note silently. Lars took it, read once, and didn't speak for a long beat. Finally, he handed it back.
"Are we securing the site?"
Mikhail looked at them both. "No. We're pouring. Tonight. No delays."
The wind surged again, sharper this time. It kicked the corners of the canvas over the equipment rack. From the ridge, thunder groaned low and distant.
"We'll rotate the heaters," Mikhail said. "Line them along the northern trench, thirty-foot spacing. We'll use the old Soviet pumps if the small ones choke."
Lars adjusted his glasses. "We're going to need more hands. Erik can't be in three places at once."
"Wake up Lucas and Toma. Offer double rate. Tonight only. Kat, you take control of the batching ratios. We'll need flexibility if the water table shifts."
Kat blinked once. "You're really going to do it?"
He pointed at the slab. "We're not giving them another night to get closer. Every hour we wait, we give them more space to work."
Before either of them could reply, the headlights of the first cement truck cut through the dark, bouncing down the wet road toward the entrance. Its tires kicked up mist as it turned onto the gravel.
Then a radio crackled. Erik's voice broke through: "Truck 5's stuck, rear wheels lose traction at the north turn. Need chains, fast."
Mikhail's jaw tightened. He spun toward the supply shed, already moving. "Get them unstuck. Then get them moving again."
Erik's radio voice buzzed again, tinny through the storm-static. "Chain's on. Truck 5's rolling."
Mikhail didn't answer. He stood at the edge of the trench, clipboard in one hand, the other raised to shield his eyes from the rain sheeting down off the temporary floodlights. The cement churners rumbled in the distance, a procession of grimy tanks snaking down the gravel path like beasts called from a darker time. Soviet-built, diesel-hungry, and unreliable on the best of days, but tonight, they were salvation.
The first truck hissed to a halt beside the slab, back wheels spraying water. Steam rose from the exhaust pipe as the worker riding shotgun hopped out, his face half-hidden under a soaked hood.
"Where's the pour line?" the man called over the wind.
"West side trench!" Mikhail yelled back, motioning. "Start shallow, stormwater pushing in from the east wall."
Kat appeared at his shoulder, sleeves rolled up and hair plastered to her neck. "Heaters are lit. Backup pumps are running. Lars is monitoring intake, no signs of backflow."
Mikhail nodded without turning. "Good. Keep the batching steady. If the water creeps, adjust the gravel ratio. No watery ghosts in this slab."
She smirked, wiped rain from her brow. "Got it. We're running a dry mix with a slow cut for the middle trench—should hold even if the temp dips."
"Perfect."
Another truck rolled in behind the first. Then a third. The convoy was holding.
Lars jogged up, tablet shielded under his jacket. "Two more stuck on the main bypass. They're chaining now."
"We're still ahead," Mikhail muttered. "As long as nothing breaks down mid-pour, we hit the timeline."
Thunder cracked overhead, this time directly above them. A gust shoved sideways against the scaffolding, bending a loose sheet of metal into a shriek. The generator blinked, just for a second, but the floodlights held.
The first pour began. Cement surged down the chute in thick, glopping streams. Erik directed it with practiced movements, shovel in one hand, shoulder against the guide rig.
"Little further north!" Mikhail shouted. "Shore it against the form, don't let it creep out the base!"
He turned to Kat. "We need better drainage at the slope. If that rain gets under the rebar, we're screwed."
"I'm on it," she said, already moving.
Lars passed him the tablet. The moisture-fogged screen glowed with sensor data: trench temps, mix stability, aggregate ratio. One of the temperature readings was spiking high. Mikhail squinted.
"Too hot on mixer three," he said. "It'll flash-cure."
Lars nodded, flipped the page on his clipboard. "That's the one with the old igniter. It's not holding steady."
"Pull it from rotation. Shift the load into mixers two and four."
"We'll lose ten percent of our buffer."
"I'll take it. We can't risk setting early. Not with this wind."
As Lars relayed instructions over the walkie, another truck's horn blared once—short, sharp.
It was the signal: incoming dump. Mikhail hustled forward, water sloshing under his boots. The west trench was halfway full, the surface smooth and perfect, glinting under the halogen lights like liquid stone.
Behind him, Kat called out, "North trench flooding again, we need the south pump running now!"
"On it!" Mikhail shouted, and dashed across the site. Water, cement, diesel, pressure, it all blurred. He moved on instinct now.
Every drop mattered.
Every second counted.
And someone, somewhere in the shadows, was watching whether they could hold.