"Good morning, Mr. Hopefield," I greet the man sitting behind his desk as I step into his office.
"Good morning…?" He responds with a frown, clearly puzzled.
"I'm Jonathan Lee. FBI," I say casually, flashing the fake ID tucked at my waist.
The man immediately stands. "FBI? Why are you—"
"I need your help with the investigation into Robert Liam's homicide case," I cut him off.
"I don't know any Robert Liam, sir," Mr. Hopefield quickly defends himself.
I nod. "I know you don't know him personally, but Mr. Liam was here the day before he was murdered. We have information that he came to retrieve his container that day."
"Let me check my records first, sir. No container enters or exits this port without being logged," Mr. Hopefield says as he sits down and checks his computer. Less than two minutes later, he finds what he's looking for.
"Oh… it's him!"
"You remember him now?" I ask.
"Mr. Liam came here twice. First, in the evening, to inspect his container. But he didn't take it out. Instead, he came to this office the next morning asking for CCTV footage of the container's area. When I asked why, he only said that something was missing from inside. I told him to file a police report first. He got upset and took his container out instead," Mr. Hopefield explains.
"I'll need to see the footage as well," I tell him.
"Of course. If it's for law enforcement, I'll provide it. That's what a good citizen does, you know," he says with a proud smile.
I return a small smirk and stand behind him as he operates his computer.
"We store footage from all areas for a full year on our standalone server before deleting it at the start of each new year. Which footage do you need?"
"I need the footage from the first time he came here."
Mr. Hopefield quickly navigates through the files, and soon, his monitor displays the requested footage. The video shows Mr. Liam arriving at the container area with two men.
"The one on his right is McGee, our on-duty officer that night," Mr. Hopefield informs me.
I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen. McGee is seen unlocking the container. Moments later, he opens it. Mr. Liam steps inside with the other man.
Five minutes later, they exit, but Mr. Liam's face is visibly tense, his expression dark. He then speaks to McGee. The footage has no sound, but judging by his body language, it's not just a conversation—it's an argument.
Mr. Liam had just discovered that the weapons were missing. He wasn't lying.
"When did his container arrive?" I ask.
Mr. Hopefield glances at his logbook. "On the 23rd," he answers, showing me the entry.
"I need a copy of the footage from when the container was placed there until it was taken out," I say, handing him a flash drive.
Mr. Hopefield nods in agreement.
I blink a few times to moisten my dry eyes. It's been over four hours of staring at footage. The container was placed there for three days, and even after tripling the speed, all I've seen is a static container. Nothing moves aside from the occasional forklift passing by twice a day.
I yawn, then take a sip of my coffee. Just as I put the mug down, something catches my eye.
I frown at the screen. The video still shows the container, unchanged. But… something feels off.
I rewind the footage slightly, scanning every frame. The container remains the same, nothing different—except… there it is again. Something I can't quite place.
Slowing the speed to normal, I watch carefully.
There.
I quickly pause the video, then rewind it ten seconds, setting the speed to half.
9:46:32 PM, April 24th.
The moon.
At 9:46:31 PM, it was completely covered. A second later, it suddenly appears.
There's no way that happened naturally. Clouds don't just vanish in an instant. They fade gradually.
This footage was either edited… or hacked.
My gut tells me it's the latter.
The next evening, I drown myself in even more footage. This time, I requested all CCTV recordings from the port.
There are about fifty cameras in total, but I only need to check those covering the time frame of April 24th, between 8:30 and 10:00 PM.
Coffee in hand, I start searching.
After scanning over half the videos, I still find nothing unusual in the container area. But then, one of the external cameras catches something interesting.
A black van is parked outside the port, just beyond the wired fence.
Then, a man emerges from the fence, dragging what looks like a briefcase or a small container. Moments later, another man steps out. Together, they lift the container into the van.
The first guy then returns to the fence. Sparks flare.
He's welding the fence back.
I zoom in on the footage, trying to read the van's license plate.
Nothing. It's either too blurry or deliberately obscured.
But then I notice something.
A sticker on the back window.
A phone number.
It's a rental.
—————
During my lunch break, I visit the rental company. Mr. Chekhovsky granted me permission, though I told my men that my "girlfriend" had an accident.
"Jonathan Lee. FBI," I say smoothly, flashing my fake ID again.
I'm glad Andy had time to make it look flawless. I'd even bet I could walk into FBI headquarters with this thing.
"We have reason to suspect that one of your vehicles was used in illegal activity," I add.
The owner sighs. "Sir, this is a rental business. What my clients do with the cars isn't my responsibility."
"That depends—unless it involves terrorism."
His eyes widen.
"Terrorism?! Look, Officer, I have nothing to do with that, okay?"
"That depends on what we find… and how cooperative you are."
"Of course, of course. I'll help however I can," he says quickly.
"I need the name and contact information of the person who rented a black van on April 24th."
"We have three black vans, sir. All were rented that day."
"Then give me all three. And I need the GPS records of those vehicles from that day as well."
"Understood, sir. Give me a moment."
Five minutes later, I walk out of the rental office with a list of three names. I take a picture of it and send it to Thief, along with a brief request for her to dig up everything she can on them.
—————
I check my phone.
Thief hasn't read my message.
That's unusual. She usually responds immediately.
Just as I start wondering, my phone pings.
[Sorry, just got off a flight. I'm in Country B visiting my grandma with my mom. I didn't bring my laptop, so I can only help you after I'm back.]
[When?]
[Just for the long weekend. I'll be back Monday afternoon. Is that okay?]
[Sure. Have fun.]
I toss my phone onto the coffee table before throwing myself onto the couch.
A long weekend.
Luckily, Mr. Chekhovsky values family time, so we, his office bodyguards, get our weekends off too.
I grab my civilian phone—the one I use as Scott Bennet.
No messages.
I sigh.
I've been too busy, rejecting invitations left and right. Now they've stopped calling.
I start texting the first girl on my contact list.
[Hi… busy tonight?]
[Sorry, I have a date :(]
[At my hometown]
[Throwing an orgy party. Wanna join?] Nope. Not my thing.
[Waiting for my HIV test results] Yikes.
…
Out of twenty girls, not a single one is free.
Except one.
Jennifer.
I deliberately skipped texting her.
It wasn't because she had paid me—it was because she never called me after that night. Most girls call within a day or two, but she? Nothing.
It stung a little.
Just as I start overthinking, my phone rings.
Jennifer.
Damn, does she have telepathy?
"Hi, Jen," I answer casually.
"Please tell me you're free this weekend," she says, sulking.
"Why?"
"My trip got canceled. I need company. I'll pay you."
"Don't pay me."
"Deal."