(LANCE)
The convoy of two plain vans cut through the coastal darkness like shadows, headlights off, engines low and muffled. The air inside smelled of gun oil, sweat, and the lingering brine of the marsh that still clung to our boots. Eliona sat beside me in the lead vehicle, wrapped in a dark jacket, her hand gripping mine tightly. The bruise on her cheek had darkened to a deep purple under the faint glow of the dashboard screen. Every bump in the road made her wince, but she stayed silent, steady, trusting.
Eleven hours and ten minutes remained on the Salazar ultimatum.
The derelict shrimp processing plant rose out of the wetlands like a rusted skeleton — broken windows, sagging metal roofs, and the faint stench of old fish and diesel drifting on the night wind. We killed the engines
