At 04:11, Julian’s soft clicking became a hard clatter. “I’ve got it,” he blurted, and everyone who wasn’t already awake was awake in an instant.
Capol was down the stairs by the time the second monitor bloomed. Vince materialized beside him, knife already in hand as if the blade could answer a question. Jerry arrived last, fast but unhurried, tying his hair back with a rubber band that had been on his wrist for two weeks.
Julian pointed. “Berth Twelve. They’re doing dry runs. See the pattern?” The camera showed nothing more than a forklift moving crates from one stack to another, but Julian’s finger traced the negative space between movements. “They’re drawing a blind. Anyone watching live will be lulled. But here—” he toggled, fast-forwarding, slowing— “the security feed loses a frame
