The port was louder than usual tonight—machines groaned, metal clanged, waves slapped against steel hulls—but underneath the industrial noise was something quieter, colder.
Something lethal.
Andrea crouched behind a column of rust-licked cargo containers. Her chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately. Every breath timed. Every muscle braced. The wind carried salt and diesel fumes, the air thick with the weight of secrets.
She adjusted the tight black combat suit hugging her frame—fiber-armored, frictionless, designed for mobility. Her fingers brushed the utility belt strapped at her hip: lockpick, tactical knife, mini flashlight, silencer module—no guns tonight. This was recon. Get in, get info, get out. Quiet.
But as she moved through the shadows of the shipping yard, Andrea saw the truth.
This wasn't going to be quiet.
She kept low, darting across the open stretch between stacked cargo crates. Her boots made no sound. Her balance was perfect. Andrea wasn't just a spy—she was a phantom trained by a secret agency that didn't officially exist. Every step was a calculation. Every breath a decision.
Then she saw them.
Men. At least twenty. Spread across the yard in loose formations. Black suits. No uniforms. No insignias. No earpieces. Just silence and tension. And weapons—submachine guns slung low, like they expected a war but didn't want to draw attention. These weren't guards. They were criminals.
Professionals, but the wrong kind.
Andrea's eyes scanned the distance. The container she was looking for—K19X-A773—wasn't near. It sat at the far end of the yard, flanked by cranes and floodlights. Exposed. She would have to cross an open sector patrolled by at least four armed men to get there. There was no backup. No support team in her ear. Maya had only given her coordinates and a whisper of intel.
The rest was up to her.
Andrea scaled a container silently, climbing hand-over-hand with speed and grace. She reached the top and went prone, watching from above. She studied their movement patterns, eyes darting between patrols, memorizing every footstep, every blind spot. Below, one of the mercs paused—checking his surroundings, rubbing the back of his neck like he felt something wrong.
But he didn't look up.
She moved again, creeping across the tops of containers like a shadow with purpose. Thirty meters. Twenty. Ten. Now she was just three stacks away from her target. She crouched and dropped to the ground behind a forklift, slipping between its massive wheels.
Then a voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Hey! You there!"
Andrea turned smoothly, heart steady.
A tall man stood near one of the storage racks, half-lidded eyes sharpening as they took in her figure. He stepped closer, hand resting on the grip of his weapon.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Andrea straightened, calm and collected.
"Inspection," she said, lifting a clipboard she'd grabbed earlier from an abandoned shipping desk. "Got rerouted from Dock 7. They told me this batch was due for early clearance."
The man frowned. His gaze dropped to the clipboard, then traveled to her suit. His eyes narrowed.
"Dock 7 doesn't run night shifts. And you're not on our list."
He started to raise his weapon.
She dropped the smile.
"And you're not very smart for shouting like that."
Before he could raise his gun, she moved.
Andrea didn't blink.
With fluid speed, she closed the gap between them, grabbed his wrist, twisted it with a brutal jerk—snap—and slammed her knee into his abdomen. As he doubled over, she drove her elbow into the back of his neck. He dropped like a stone.
Deadweight.
She scanned the area—no witnesses. Andrea grabbed the unconscious body by the collar and hauled him behind a storage bin. She popped open a large garbage container and shoved the 67-kilo man inside, careful not to make noise.
"Sorry, big guy," she muttered. "I don't have time for you."
She continued the climb, leaping from one container to another with calculated precision. The shipping yard stretched like a metal maze under the setting sun. The shadows were getting longer — and more dangerous.
Every second counted.
She crouched low again, fingers brushing another tag. No match.
Then another.
Still no match.
Then—
Then she crouched again, eyeing the container labeled K19X-A773 in the distance.
Still too far. Still exposed.
She whispered under her breath, "This won't end without a fight."
Andrea climbed another container and sprinted across the top. Below, two guards were talking, laughing. She stepped softly, body aligned with the wind to reduce her profile. She crossed another stretch, ducked low behind a vent.
But someone noticed.
One of the guards glanced toward the stacks. His eyes fell on the exact spot where his teammate had stood just ten minutes earlier. Empty. The radio? Lying on the ground, blinking red.
He picked it up, frowning.
"Unit Bravo-Three, report."
Static.
He scanned the area, sharp now. Alert.
Then he heard it—a faint creak of boots above.
He stepped away from his post and climbed the nearest ladder, reaching the top of the container stack.
Andrea was already moving, keeping low, zigzagging across rows. She reached the final stack separating her from the K19X crate and dropped down.
Click.
She spun.
A metallic snap behind her. Cold steel pressed against her temple.
"Don't move," the voice snarled.
She didn't.
She slowly raised her hands.
"Turn around."
"Final warning!" he shouted, finger twitching on the trigger.
Her eyes flicked once to the side. He followed her gaze.
She did—but she twisted as she turned, grabbing the man's wrist, slamming his gun-hand into the container wall. He fired once—CRACK—a wild shot into the steel. Andrea ducked, elbowed him in the ribs, then took him down with a leg sweep. His back hit the ground. She snatched his weapon and used it like a club, striking him unconscious.
But the shot had echoed. It was enough.
Alarms sounded.
Lights flared across the yard.
Men shouted.
"All units—intruder spotted!"
Now it was real.
Nineteen men armed and searching. They knew she was here. Knew she was hostile. Andrea had seconds before they converged.
.______.🛡️.______.🛡️.______.🛡️.______.🛡️.______.🛡️.______.
The clang of boots on steel echoed through the dark, empty yard.
Andrea didn't flinch.
Another man was climbing the side of the container, blade in hand, eyes full of fury. He reached the top and lunged straight at her.
Big mistake.
Andrea twisted to the side, caught his wrist mid-air, and flipped him over her shoulder like it was second nature. His body slammed onto the floor below with a sickening crack.
She didn't wait.
Another man scrambled up, this time with a knife, grinning like he had already won.
"Don't touch me like I'm just a girl," Andrea said coldly.
He laughed, cocky. "You are just a girl."
Andrea's lips curled into a smile.
"Then fight me like I'm not."
He charged.
She met him halfway.
Fists flew. Elbows hit ribs. Her punch landed right on his nose with a crunch. Blood sprayed.
Another came from behind.
She dropped low, spun, and drove her elbow straight into his gut. He gasped, stumbled, and she grabbed the back of his head—bam—slammed it against the metal wall of the container.
Two down.
No time to breathe.
Another two came at her together.
One swung a blade. She lifted her armguard, deflecting the blow. She grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and threw him over the edge. He screamed all the way down.
The second one charged right after. She ducked, drove a knee into his side, and knocked the breath out of him.
Her muscles were burning now. Sweat rolled down her temples beneath the mask.
Five down.
More were climbing up.
Andrea didn't wait.
She jumped from the top of the container — somersaulting through the air — and landed hard on one of the men below. He collapsed with a groan.
She spun on her heel and kicked the next in the face. His head snapped back.
They came at her with pipes. Knives. Broken bottles.
She moved through them like a storm — not with grace, but with rage.
Kicks to ribs. Boots to faces. Fingers to throats.
One guy tried to grab her arm — she ducked and shoved her elbow into his jaw.
She dropped to the ground, slid under another's swing, and drove her boot into his gut. Her mask cracked at the edge from a glancing blow, but her eyes didn't blink.
She was in her element.
This wasn't just training.
She was built for this.
They dropped around her — panting, groaning, bloody.
Eighteen.
Eighteen down.
And then came the last one.
Bigger. Meaner. Covered in tattoos and blood. His lip was split, eyes full of hate.
Andrea wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her glove.
"You sure you want to do this?" she asked.
He smirked. "You don't look so tough anymore."
She rolled her neck.
"And you don't look very smart."
He roared — and charged.
This time, Andrea didn't reach for her knives.
No blades. No gadgets.
Just hands.
He swung. She ducked. Slammed a fist into his stomach. He grunted. Another punch grazed her temple — she stumbled back a step.
She shook it off.
Three fast blows: chest. Chin. Knee.
CRACK.
He collapsed.
She stood over him, breathing hard. Her fists still clenched. The world around her had gone quiet.
Bodies lay sprawled across the yard. The air was filled with the metallic tang of blood, and silence stretched across the dark space.
Andrea looked down at her gloves, then at the container she'd fought so hard to reach.
"That's more like it," she muttered.
Her knees ached, but her focus sharpened. She pulled out her tablet, scanning the codes on the side of the container. Her fingers were trembling slightly — not from fear, but adrenaline.
Inside the container: boxes, sealed crates, black bags — and a transmitter.
Andrea's eyes widened.
A hidden signal.
And a timer blinking red: 23 minutes left before the shipment left the docks.
Her pulse picked up again. She pressed her comm-link.
Andrea's knuckles were bloodied. Her suit was torn along her ribs, and her breathing had started to turn shallow. But her eyes were still sharp—locked onto the container she had crossed hell for: K19X-A773.
It stood thirty meters away now, past crates and concrete, past bodies she'd dropped with precision. She moved forward like a force of nature—shoulders squared, body tense, pace deliberate.
But as her hand reached for the latch, a new threat emerged.
Boots thundered against the pavement.
Five more men rushed out from behind the far stack—guns up, yelling orders. The glint of steel barrels caught the floodlights. Their fingers were already on triggers.
Andrea's heart jolted.
They were going to shoot.
Too close.