227Dane.The distortion on the traffic cam feed always irritated me, a faint ripple along the bottom edge that the port supervisor never bothered fixing. I watched the grainy image anyway, elbows braced on the desk, breath held as the convoy reached the bend near the underpass. Two vans, identical models, identical routes. Then, like a magician’s trick, they split—one veering toward the Annex, the other gliding toward the pier-side bypass.My stomach tightened. That wasn’t the plan.I called Sophie. She picked up on the second ring, her voice already lacquered with the kind of confidence she wore like perfume.“Abort the Annex,” I told her, watching the vans drift apart like the halves of a severed thought. “The alarm changed the calculus. This is too exposed.”She didn’t even pretend to consider it. “Relax, Dane. We’re minutes from finishing. Go drink something expensive.”I could hear the noise behind her—the alarm tone mutating into full announcements, passengers shuffling in conf
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