The flight went without problems. But then one problem awaits already at the airport parking lot. Michelle stops beside a rental car and gestures at it. “Girls, here’s our ride.”

  Mei-Ling squints at the empty driver’s seat. “Looks fine… but where’s the driver?”

  Michelle hesitates. “…Whoops.”

  Aya throws her hands up. “Oh, boy! Nice job, Miss Perfect! Now what? Don’t tell me you expect us to walk.”

  “No,” Michelle says. “We improvise. Trella, you know how to drive, right?”

  Trella blinks. “Sort of. Talia and Maya gave me a few lessons. Just the basics.”

  “Basics will do.”

  Trella entered panic mode. “Michelle, I’m only fifteen!”

  Michelle pulls a card from her bag. “Not anymore. Congratulations, your brand new driver’s license.”

  Aya stares. “You’re insane! She’s going to kill us all!”

  “Not unless you’re driving,” Katya says dryly.

  Aya snaps. “Shut up!”

  Inside the rental car Trella grips the wheel like it might explode.

  “Ten and two… steady… breathe… okay… okay…”

  Aya is already clutching the handle above the window. “Oh my God, we’re all going to die!

  “She hasn’t even left the lot yet,” Katya says.

  “I can feel the doom!”

  Michelle leans from the passenger seat. “Trella, you’re doing fine. Just follow the road. It’s only five hours.”

  Trella’s eyes widened. “Five?!”

  A few minutes later, they merge onto the highway. The ride is surprisingly smooth. An hour in…

  “See? You’re doing great,” Michelle says. “Smooth driving, steady lane…”

  “If you call sweating through two shirts in one hour great…” Trella mutters.

  “Your turns are too wide!” Aya whines. “If a truck comes, we’ll be pancakes!”

  Katya leans close to Aya’s ear. “Pancakes sound good. Maybe crash near a diner.”

  “SHUT UP!”

  Hour four. Night has fallen. The Fangs arrived at the hidden weapons depot.

  Trella slumps over the wheel, voice hoarse. “We… survived.”

  “My soul left my body three times,” Aya says shakily.

  “And came back louder each time,” Katya adds.

  Michelle pats Trella’s shoulder. “No scratches. No tickets.”

  Mei-Ling grins. “And now the real danger begins.”

  “…Somebody else is driving back,” Trella groans.

  A corrugated steel door yawns open. A damp, diesel-scented stash-house hums with a single bare bulb. Michelle leads them through a narrow corridor. The cache is tidy. A practical pile of pistols, a few compact semi-autos, rows of magazines, combat knives in leather sheaths, a handful of grenades and a modest stack of ammo. Not an armory. The sort Dawson planned: lean, efficient, disposable.

  Mei-Ling looks impressed. “I thought it’d be empty.”

  “Joseph’s maps are old, but accurate,” Michelle says. “Helped us find it fast.”

  Trella checks the magazines with an automatic, efficient motion. Everyone straps on compact holsters that sit low under their jackets.

  Not a palace,” Katya says. “But it’ll work.”

  Aya grins. “Finally. Pocket knives that aren’t part of my manicure kit.”

  No one goes into detail. They move like professionals, counting, checking, sealing.

  ***

  The hotel is clean and anonymous. The kind of place diplomats ignore. They slide into a room that smells faintly of shampoo and aftershave. Michelle sets the suit bags on the bed like a reveal. “You’re not walking in looking like ghosts. You’ll dress like people who belong in the same room as Mr. Wong.”

  She opens a bag. The suits are muted and ruthless: tailored cuts that fit combat-ready bodies, pockets sewn for concealment, fabrics that don’t scream. Dark olive for Trella, graphite for Katya, black with crimson for Mei-Ling and slate for Michelle. Aya’s white suit is the only bright thing in the room; it reads like a dare.

  Mei-Ling brushed her fingers across the fabric. “These are… beautiful.”

  “I’ll try mine on,” Trella said, already reaching for the hanger.

  They changed quickly. Trella steps out first. Dark-olive suit, dark shirt, hair tucked. She looks like a soldier in an officer’s uniform. Katya slides into graphite. The cut gives her a reaper’s silhouette. She nods at herself in the mirror. Mei-Ling appears in black, serene and impossible to ignore. Aya emerges last in the white suit with a black shirt. For a heartbeat she looks more like a headline than a killer. She grins, delighted and dangerous. Trella checks that the holster sits flat. Michelle hands out small soft gun pouches that slip into inner jackets.

  “They have pockets for the things we need,” she said, half joking, half commanding. “Nobody’s waving metal at customs and nobody’s asking uncomfortable questions.”

  Aya turned slightly, admiring herself in the mirror. “Okay. I admit it. Not a bad look. I could get used to looking rich and lethal.”

  Trella met Michelle’s eyes. “Remember. We’re guests in crocodile territory. Be polite, be sharp, be boring. Don’t start fights. Don’t take the bait. If Wong smiles, don’t smile back.”

  “We go in calm,” Michelle said. “We sell competence. We get what we can and we leave. No heroics unless it saves our skins.”

  They gather their small packs, test holsters one last time, and move out — a quartet of killers in business clothing, a single silent promise between them.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  ***

  The lobby of the office building was quiet and expensive. They waited. Wong arrived flanked by three men, relaxed, confident, smiling as if greeting old friends.

  “Trella!” he boomed. “You grew up, girl! You look great! And Aya… Wow! And I thought I′ve already seen everything. You look even more dangerous than in your regular army clothes! Nice! You all look sharp! And…”

  His gaze slid across the group and settled on Michelle. The smile thinned. His expression became a little bit more serious. “You must be Cipher. You are younger than I thought.”

  “Yes. Actually my name is Michelle. Honor to meet you, Mr. Wong.”

  She offered her hand for a handshake. Wong looks at her hand. “You already trust me so much that you tell me your true name?”

  “If we should have a serious conversation and do any business, I think at least a little bit of trust is necessary. “

  For an instant his face went unreadable, then the warmth snapped back into place and he shook her hand. “Yes, you′re right! Let′s go.”

  As they walked to his office, he glanced sideways at Michelle. “Tell me one thing. How did you manage to dress them up like that? They actually look like your personal bodyguards.”

  “I… just told them,” she answered.

  Inside his office, Wong gestured them toward the chairs. “Now… let′s get straight to business.” His face changed to very serious. As I said before, you really have some guts, young lady. So this better be good. I don′t like my time being wasted.“

  “It is,” Michelle said. “But first I have to ask - you know, what the Black Fangs really are. But how much do you know about their predecessor, the Organisation?”

  “I know about it.”

  “Then you know its fate. Well here is the news. Someone dug up their research and new Fangs are popping up all over the world. Fangs way stronger and more dangerous than our girls. And you know how strong they are.”

  “True. But why should this be of any interest to me?”

  “Because the person that made it happen is in this very town. And I can imagine that this kind of town would have enough people interested in such technology. So you know I am serious, I would like to show you something. “

  She pulled out her laptop and replayed the scenes where the Chinese cyborgs attacked the Fangs.

  Trella’s voice was calm. “That girl received a shotgun barrage to the chest point blank. She walked it off like it was nothing.”

  Wong's face turned from serious to slightly concerned.

  “I don′t think you want those things running around your town,” Michelle said.

  “Name.”

  “Louross Chan.”

  “Doesn′t ring a bell.”

  One of his guards cleared his throat. “Ehm, boss…? If I may…”

  Wong gave him the nod. He may speak.

  “I′ve heard that name, but that doesn't add up. Louross Chan is just a low level sewer rat doing occasional dirty work. He is not someone who gained money from selling Fang tech.”

  “From my contacts I know he was selling Fang tech in Indonesia,” Michelle replied. “Then he stepped on someone's toes, had to flee and ended up here. We need a list of his clients and we need to destroy the data for good.”

  “And we want him dead,” Aya added.

  “…that too,” Michelle said.

  Wong leaned back. “So you want to find him and simply execute justice to keep your uniqueness? I was hoping for a little more entertainment. I′ve got news, little lady, the world is not just. Never was, never will be. And that goes double in this town. Now why wouldn′t I find the guy and take the data for myself? Assuming he actually has it…”

  “Balance. You may be one of the strongest powers in this town, but not the only one. This town exists only thanks to a very delicate balance between the strongest parties of this town. I know about the turf war from ten years ago and its costs. You have divided the power, thanks to that all your businesses flourish. Disturbing that power balance would lead to another war. With this power you would probably come on top, but it would not come without a high price.”

  “You think I′m not that brave?”

  “Brave or smart? Bravery in war was a thing in medieval times. Today's wars are only about money and power.”

  Wong leaned back and faintly smiled. “I like you. You′ve done your homework. And you really have guts. This may be entertaining after all. You know what? I will help you. But as you said, everything comes with a price.”

  “And what will be the price for this?”

  “You will do a job for me. In exchange I will deliver you Chan.”

  “Sounds good. What kind of job?”

  “I will tell you only if you agree to the terms. You didn′t really tell me anything on the phone either.”

  “True… Fine, we have a deal.”

  Wong’s smile flattens into business. “Very well. You want Chan? Earn him.”

  He taps a finger on the desk. A slim folder slides across. Trella’s eyes catch the stamped sigil: the Red Croc.

  Wong continues. “A man named Diego Marquez. He runs a mid-tier wing of that syndicate. Muscle, protection, pickups. Loud, predictable and nasty. He’s been muscling a shipment route through my territory. Shipment of weapons. And I don′t remember giving permission to anyone to sell weapons.”

  Wong leans forward; his voice lowers. ”I want Marquez gone. Publicly. His corpse left as a message to his people. And while they lick their wounds and scramble for payback, I want you to extract the ledger from the back office of his warehouse. It’ll have names, receipts, shipping routes, everything. Bring me the ledger, and I will hand you Chan. Alive or bloodied, your choice.”

  Michelle swallows, eyes flicking to Trella. No one smiles. He slides a small sealed envelope across; it contains a single folded photograph of a concrete warehouse and a time-stamped slip: Warehouse 22 — East Wharf — 2200 hrs — 3 days.

  “You do this, you get Chan. You don’t,you get the town’s patience in the form of its teeth. Choose.”

  Michelle looks at the girls. The decision is not tactical only, it’s moral. She then turns back to Wong. “We accept your terms.”

  Wong’s satisfied nod is a small victory. “Good. One more thing. When you walk away, make sure the town knows who did it. Leave a signature. Make it artful. I like art.”

  They shake hands. A formal seal on a dangerous contract. The ledger, the delivery tag, the photograph of Warehouse 22, the whole world now points at the pier.

  ***

  The wharf is loud with daytime commerce. Forklifts, shouts in half a dozen languages, the metallic clank of crates. Warehouse 22 sits among a row of similar metal buildings, an anonymous giant with a painted number and a permanent smell of salt and diesel.

  In a shaded cafe, Michelle, Katya and Mei-Ling set up. Michelle’s pad is open: map, satellite cut and annotated photos. Katya watches through a cheap lens; Mei-Ling listens and catalogues rhythms more than faces. Michelle is running the timing, notes when trucks pull, guard rotations, the precise window when the office door opens for deliveries. Their cover: tourists with a long layover and a love of industrial photography.

  Trella walks the perimeter with a clipboard, looking for “warehouse options”. A cover that lets her check locks, hinges, and dock edges. She moves with an officer’s gait, polite questions to dockhands, hands casually checking seams. Nobody pays her much mind; Tratpur’s docks are used for business.

  Aya saunters in separately — broad-shouldered, bright smile, looking like a job-seeking muscle-for-hire. She chats up a loader about heavy lifting gigs, flexes a little when asked about experience, exactly enough to get the guys to show attitudes and loading habits without being cocky.

  ***

  In the evening the girls gathered for a little meeting in their hotel room. Outside, Tratpur hummed with traffic and distant music, oblivious to the violence being planned within four anonymous walls.

  Michelle stood by the table, tablet in hand. “So... Two days of observation gave us enough data and a way in. Aya, you got the job, right?”

  “Hell yeah! They called me a human forklift,” Aya grinned.

  “The most important thing is,” Michelle continued, “you can move around without raising suspicion. So your job is to catch the moment the office’s unmanned and snatch the papers. We know there is a window when the administrator goes out for lunch.The office is unmanned.

  “Taking them’s one thing. Getting them out unnoticed... that’s another.”

  “That’s why you won’t take them out. Any good places to hide them inside the building?”

  “Not many. But I think I know one.”

  “Good. The tricky part isn’t getting the documents intact or killing Marquez, it’s doing both at the same time. He’s not there all day. Aya, any chance you can sneak weapons in?”

  “None. Maybe a Colt, tops.”

  “Okay. Bring that. We’ll supply the rest.“

  Michelle then turns to Katya. “Can you use that old crane as a sniper’s nest?”

  “No problem. The HK21 can cover the yard, but it’s not exactly a quiet gun.”

  “It won’t matter. When the shooting starts, it starts hard.”

  Trella folded her arms. “So what’s the full plan?”

  “We’re short-handed, so we play it smart. Aya moves first. She secures the files. Then we′ll wait for Marquez and hit the place. We walk through the front door, then Aya hits from the rear and Katya from the crane.”

  Trella nodded slowly. “A crossfire from three sides. It will create disorder. Where will you be?”

  Michelle didn’t hesitate. “I’m going with you.”

  The room froze.

  “What?!” came from all sides.

  “Only two of you are hitting the front. You’ll need one more.”

  Trella studied her. “Took you a while to get past your first kill. Are you sure you can pull that trigger again?”

  Katya added quietly, “Back then you were protecting your father. You’re the only one here without blood on your hands.”

  “Maybe not directly. But I’ve given orders to kill. That’s its own kind of trigger.” Michelle exhaled. “You’re probably right. I don’t know if I can go full combat mode again. But I’ll go with you. I bring Aya her guns, then we’ll switch and I handle the documents.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Trella said. “But be careful, okay? You’ll be on your own most of the time. No heroics. You’re not enhanced.”

  “You’ve got my word.”

  The plan settled into place — fragile, violent, and irreversible.