Tyler's POV.
The checkup at the clinic was a hollow formality. I let Beatrice have her hour of freedom in the waiting room for a while, before she said she wanted to eat some junks. This was how we went for going for a clinical checkup, to exploring almost half of Flensburg City.
I stood beside the SUV packed by the road side, with my dark eye shades to avoid recognition... fielding a frantic series of calls that had nothing to do with her. The peace was over. The war had officially moved from the shadows to the shoreline.
My phone vibrated. I looked at the caller ID. It was Lucas.
"The ZigLan shipments to Mexico are gone," Lucas's voice was like a frozen wind. There was no greeting nor preamble. "Damien's men intercepted the mobility tech at the Kurf crossing. They used a local militia to stage a safety inspection. The goods are being held in a private warehouse."
"He's moving fast, Lucas," I said, pacing the sterile hallway. "What about the Nile Town expansion?"
"Suspended," Lucas rasped. "He's used his political leverage with the Ministry of Transit to cite environmental irregularities. He's holding our expansion hostage for the upcoming election cycle. He wants us to fund his opposition, or he'll bury ZigLan in red tape for the next decade."
"Oh my God, this dude ain't backing up"
"Tell me what you need me to do." I asked.
"Just observe" Lucas commanded. "This is one of his dirty tricks. He wants me to fly back to handle the port, leaving the North wing vulnerable. I won't do it. Contact Fernanda. Tell her that if she wants her 50/50 split, she needs to prove her worth. Handle the recovery, Tyler. Use the Belarus channels. Do not involve the Elliott lawyers. Use force if necessary."
The line went dead. I felt the weight of the empire shifting onto my shoulders. I walked towards Beatrice and grabbed her arm, leading her back to the car.
"We're going home," I said. "Now."
"What? Is something wrong... I'm not even done with the dessert" she said with a frown.
I went back to the restaurant and brought her unfinished dessert " pregnant girls can be difficult" I thought to myself, handing her the dessert before going over to the passengers seat.
...
Later that evening, the rain was lashing against the windows of the hotel lounge. I was nursing a headache when Fernanda finally called. I expected her to be furious, but her voice was eerily calm.
"Our shipment is sitting in a warehouse controlled by a man who thinks he's a kingmaker," she said. "The Kurf's crossing is blocked, and my distributors are breathing down my neck."
"We're drafting a plan, Fernanda. Lucas wants us to handle it quietly," I replied.
"I don't do quiet when my profit margins are at stake, Tyler. I've traced the warehouse. It's guarded by Santiago's local muscle, but they aren't professionals. They're thugs in uniforms. I want a joint strike. My security and your Shadow Army. We take the goods back before dawn."
"Agreed," I said, leaning back in my chair. I felt the adrenaline beginning to override the fatigue. "But let's talk about the compensation, Fernanda. You stood me up for that drink. You told me you didn't have time for vanity. Now you're asking me to risk a diplomatic incident for your crates."
There was a pause on the other end. I could almost hear her smirk. "What are you asking for, Tyler?"
"When the crates are back on the ships and Damien is nursing a bruised ego, I want more than a tactical debrief. I want that meeting you skipped. No business, no contracts, and no distractions. Just you, me, and a bottle of something that costs more than those permits."
"You're shooting your shot again, Belarus?" she teased, her voice dropping an octave. "In the middle of a corporate heist?"
"I'm an Elliott," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "We're very good at multitasking. Do we have a deal?"
"Recover my shipment, Tyler," she whispered. "And I might just show you that I'm worth more than a signature on a contract."
....
Tyler's POV.
The rain at the warehouse wasn't just falling; it was a deluge that swallowed the sound of our approach. I adjusted the night-vision goggles, the world turning a grainy, electric green. Beside me, Fernanda crouched behind a rusted shipping container, her silhouette sharp and lethal. She wasn't wearing a business suit tonight. She was in tactical black, a sidearm holstered at her thigh with the familiarity of a seasoned soldier.
"The thermal sweep shows twelve guards inside the main warehouse," she whispered, her voice cutting through the rhythmic drumming of the rain. "Six at the north loading dock, two on the catwalks, and four in the office block. These aren't Damien's elite. They're local muscle paid in cash and cheap whiskey."
"Which means they'll run the moment things get loud," I replied, signaling to the Shadow Army units flanking the perimeter. "We don't kill unless we have to, Fernanda. Lucas wants the shipment recovered, not a massacre that makes the morning headlines."
"I don't care about headlines, Tyler. I care about my hardware."
I gave the signal. The strike was surgical. We moved in a synchronized blur of suppressed gunfire and flashbangs. The local thugs were caught in the middle of a card game; they didn't even have time to reach for their rifles before my men had them pinned to the concrete.
Fernanda moved with a terrifying efficiency, taking the lead on the catwalks. I watched her drop two guards with a non-lethal precision that made my pulse quicken. By the time we reached the center of the warehouse, where the crates of ZigLan mobility tech were stacked under a tarp, the building was secure.
"Check the seals," I commanded, my breath hitching in the cold air.
Fernanda stepped up to the primary crate, her fingers tracing the holographic Elliott seal. "Intact," she breathed, a rare flash of relief crossing her face. She turned to me, her hair damp with sweat and rain, her eyes glowing in the dim industrial lighting. "We have the shipment back, Tyler."
"Then the raid is over," I said, stepping closer to her, the adrenaline of the fight still humming in my veins. "And the compensation begins."