The metal gate creaked as it opened, the chain-link rattling faintly in the soft morning wind. Mikhail stepped forward with Kat at his side, the sky above washed in the pale pinks of early dawn. Gravel crushed underfoot as they crossed the site's perimeter and approached the small shape resting dead center on the crushed stone driveway.
It was a sealed plastic box, weatherproof, opaque but scratched, maybe an old electrical casing or repurposed lunchbox. Someone had placed it carefully, deliberately, not tossed or dropped. It hadn't been there yesterday.
Mikhail crouched slowly, his knees stiff from days of strain. He scanned the box for wires, catches, anything suspicious. Nothing jumped out. He flicked his eyes to Kat, who nodded grimly, her mouth drawn tight.
Using a screwdriver from his back pocket, he pried the latch. It gave off a metallic pop. Inside lay three things: a rusted loop of rebar twisted into a broken circle, a snapped trowel blade, the kind used for fine concrete finishing, and a black-and-white photograph.
Kat leaned in over his shoulder. "That's our trench," she whispered.
The photo was grainy, clearly zoomed from a distance, maybe taken from the hill where the black sedan had been days earlier. It showed the site at night — lights on, workers moving, shadowed figures. Their figures.
"Timestamp," Mikhail murmured, flipping the photo. Inked in smudged pen: 03:47 A.M.
His fingers tightened around the edges.
Footsteps approached. Lars appeared, his eyes flicking from the box to Mikhail. "Found it when I checked the outer cameras. Whoever left it didn't show their face. They parked out of range. Walk it up."
Kat crossed her arms. "They know we're watching, the sure do know."
"They want us to feel it," Lars said. "To second guess."
Mikhail closed the box gently and stood. "Log it. Then seal it. We'll store it in the trailer."
Lars took it without argument.
"They're not going to stop," Kat said, voice low. "We're a target now, whether it's about land, pride, or whatever the hell this is."
"Then we build anyway," Mikhail replied, eyes on the rising sun cresting the edge of the slab. "We don't let this slow the pour."
Behind him, a pump truck rumbled to life. Its diesel purr cut through the silence like a declaration.
Erik called out from across the lot, waving a clipboard. "Ready when you are, boss."
Mikhail turned and nodded once, brisk. "All right. Let's pour."
The roar of the pump truck swallowed the last of the morning quiet. Diesel fumes mixed with the clean scent of damp cement. Mikhail paced along the edge of the formwork, eyes scanning every inch of the final pour zone. This was it, the last layer, the topping slab that would bind everything beneath into permanence.
Kat adjusted the slump gauge beside the mixer. "Mix is holding steady. Just like the last test batch."
"Don't let it creep over a seven," Mikhail warned, glancing at the barrel rotation. "This is our finished coat. I want zero bleeding, zero shrinkage."
She gave him a thumbs up and moved into position with Lars, who was already guiding the thick hose over the grid of rebar, boots planted wide in the wet dust. Erik, clipboard in hand, barked a short order to a laborer about the screed rail. The man snapped into motion.
Mikhail raised his voice just slightly over the hum of machinery. "We finish this like it's the floor of a damn cathedral. Every edge is straight. Every bubble worked out."
"Already planning the pews?" Lars muttered, bracing as the first rush of concrete surged through the hose.
It hit the base with a wet thud. The others moved immediately, Erik with a hand trowel to chase the corners, Kat kneeling to test the spread with a finish float. The team moved like clockwork now, tension honed into efficiency.
Mikhail stayed mobile, checking volume gauges and monitoring the hydration readings from his handheld sensor. Every few minutes he adjusted something: the speed of the pour, the angle of the chute, the location of a heater running along the curing blankets.
Rain threatened again from the northwest. He kept his eye on the clouds, but it was holding for now.
"Heyyyyyyyyy, More to the left side," he called out. "We've got a sag between anchors."
Lars pivoted, adjusted the hose angle with a grunt. "Got it!"
Erik barked, "Watch the south seam! It's drifting out of true!"
"I see it," Kat responded, already on her knees with the float.
Mikhail dropped beside her. Together they pushed the slab edge back into line, millimeter by millimeter, the metal float clinking softly against the formwork. The concrete was beginning to take its first set. No room for error now.
"Pressure's good, really good" Lars called. "Flow's even."
Mikhail stood again, wiping sweat from his temple. The sky cracked with a dull rumble in the distance, thunder, faint but crawling closer.
"We've got maybe thirty minutes before that hits us," Mikhail said. "Get the cure blankets ready. We go fast once this sets in."
Kat glanced at the darkening sky. "Think we'll make it?"
He looked back at the slab. "We don't have a choice."
The last of the mix reached the edge of the frame. Lars killed the pump. Silence fell for a beat, then motion resumed at once. Blankets. Trowels. Edge tools. Everyone moved with silent purpose.
Kat pressed the final float pass over the northwest corner. "That's it. Clean."
Mikhail crouched again, ran his hand just above the smooth surface. It was still warm, slightly tacky but level. Perfect.
Lars stepped beside him. "You gonna cry?"
"Not yet."
Behind them, Erik emerged from the trailer holding a fresh printout. "Hey," he called, breath tight. "You all need to see this."