Delilah's car rolled silently to a stop, headlights dimmed, the engine barely a whisper in the predawn darkness. She cut the ignition and sat motionless for a moment, eyes scanning the docks ahead, a familiar tingle of anticipation humming along her spine.
The phone call with Luc Moreau echoed in her thoughts—his measured voice, the hint of amusement, and the confident arrogance of a man who had just declared war with a single, effortless gesture.
"Check Rose's shipping records tomorrow. The shipments coming in tonight at the docks—I've rerouted two crates of guns."
If Moreau was lying, she'd be wasting her time on an empty dock, chasing shadows. If he was telling the truth… that meant someone dangerous and capable was playing a very careful game.
She reached for her pistol, double-checking the magazine and chamber. Everything was perfect, as always. Delilah's fingers tightened around the grip as she stepped from the vehicle, moving like liquid shadow toward the designated warehouse.
The air was cold, thick with moisture, the scent of salt and oil heavy on her tongue. Dockworkers were nowhere to be seen—exactly as expected, given Rose's bribery arrangements with the unions. These shipments always moved unseen, unheard, unnoticed by anyone outside Rose's carefully curated network.
Until tonight.
She paused just outside the loading bay doors. They stood partially ajar, a detail that set her instincts buzzing immediately. Rose's men would never leave the door like this. Her heart rate quickened slightly, adrenaline sharpening her senses as she slid quietly inside.
Crates lined the warehouse floor, illuminated by the faint glow of a single overhead bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. Everything appeared untouched at first glance—exactly as Rose's records had listed.
Delilah moved slowly forward, eyes sharp, searching for anything unusual. Her gaze flicked to the shipping labels, noting each numbered box as she counted quietly to herself.
Thirty-eight… thirty-nine… forty…
She froze, suddenly alert.
Two crates were missing from the inventory. Exactly two—just as Luc Moreau had calmly implied.
Her pulse quickened. She moved swiftly, exiting Rose's warehouse, she went over to a nearby warehouse where the address Luc had given her led to. She then methodically searched for the remaining crates. Her fingers touched the wooden sides, running over each label. The missing shipment numbers matched Rose's manifest exactly.
Luc hadn't exaggerated. He hadn't just disrupted the shipment—he'd carefully, surgically extracted exactly what he promised.
Delilah straightened, mind racing. Moreau wasn't bluffing. He'd reached into Rose's operations and casually plucked out exactly what he wanted, right under the noses of Rose's supposedly ironclad security.
Impressive. And deeply troubling.
She pulled out her phone, about to call Rose herself, when it buzzed loudly in her hand, making her flinch involuntarily. She glanced at the caller ID, irritation flickering through her. Rose himself.
She hesitated, then answered, voice coolly neutral. "Rose."
"Delilah," Rose's voice was strained, barely containing his anger. "We've got a problem."
"I'm listening," she replied calmly, glancing at the empty spaces where the crates had been.
"Black Tarantula just made his move. He stole two crates from tonight's shipment at the docks—guns, specifically. He's testing us, trying to provoke a response."
Delilah remained silent for a moment, absorbing Rose's statement. Black Tarantula? The idea was plausible—he'd been pushing against Rose for weeks, subtly undermining his operations.
Yet she knew this was something else. Black Tarantula was brutal, direct, and merciless. If one looked at the situation carefully, they'd realize that this move felt different. Too precise. Too calculated. It didn't feel like Tarantula's style at all.
Luc Moreau's voice echoed faintly in her thoughts again, smoothly confident and dangerously persuasive. If he'd been honest about stealing the shipment, then Rose's assumptions were dangerously flawed.
"Are you sure it was Tarantula?" she asked carefully, choosing her words with precise caution.
Rose snapped angrily, "Who else would dare? He's been pushing harder lately, and this reeks of his arrogance. I want you here immediately. We need to strategize our response before this spirals out of control."
Delilah's grip on the phone tightened fractionally, but she kept her voice even. "Understood, boss. I'll be there shortly."
She ended the call without another word, staring quietly at the empty spaces again. Rose had jumped instantly to the obvious conclusion—a rash assumption that Luc Moreau was undoubtedly counting on.
Delilah's mind churned rapidly. Moreau had not only stolen Rose's shipment but manipulated Rose's paranoia into blaming his most dangerous rival. It was elegant. It was strategic. And if she wasn't careful, she could easily find herself caught in the middle.
She moved quickly now, the decision already made. She stepped out to her car, opened the trunk, and began moving the remaining crates, loading them swiftly and precisely into her vehicle. She secured them with practiced efficiency, eyes constantly scanning for any signs of unexpected company. None appeared, but she took no chances.
Within minutes, she had cleared the rest of the crates, securing them firmly in her vehicle. Her pulse steadied as she drove quickly through the darkened streets toward her hidden safehouse, thoughts never ceasing their rapid calculations.
Rose trusted her implicitly—perhaps too implicitly, believing she'd follow him blindly into the chaos he was determined to create. But Delilah had survived too long to put faith in blind loyalty. She trusted only results, proof, and power.
Luc Moreau offered all three, but his trustworthiness remained uncertain. He could easily be manipulating her as he'd just manipulated Rose. Was she merely another pawn? Or could he genuinely deliver the freedom, power, and independence he promised?
Arriving at her hideout, she quickly unloaded the crates, securing them in a hidden, reinforced chamber beneath the floor. Weapons of this quality, she knew, were insurance. Whether against Rose, Black Tarantula, or even Luc Moreau himself, they offered leverage, control.
She stood back, taking a deep, steadying breath, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror nearby—cool, composed, unreadable. Exactly as she needed to be.
Moreau's offer resonated deeply, tempting her ambition and testing her loyalty. Yet Delilah was no fool. Promises were cheap, actions invaluable. Tonight, Luc had proved his capability; now, he needed to prove his intentions.
As she secured her safehouse once more, Delilah's thoughts darkened. Rose was panicking, Black Tarantula likely unaware he'd just become the scapegoat, and Luc Moreau maneuvering silently in the shadows. She was standing at the intersection of their conflict, one misstep away from ruin or triumph.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Luc Moreau had captured her attention—but trust was still elusive.
"Let's see how far your game goes, Luc," she murmured softly, the words both promise and warning.
Because in the end, Delilah would always ensure she was on the winning side—even if she had to forge that victory herself.