My Boss Fired Me in Front of Everyone - Nine Minutes Later, Someone Used My Name to Reroute $28 Million in Cargo

I followed Julian down the rusting iron fire escape, my mind racing faster than my pounding heart.

Julian Rossi wasn't an FBI agent. The badge was a fake. The story about the federal judge was a lie to isolate me. He was a mercenary, likely hired by a rival syndicate to acquire the Montreal server keys I held in my hand.

We sprinted through the rain-slicked alleyway and jumped back into the unmarked SUV.

“Where to?” Julian asked, peeling out of the alley and checking his rearview mirror for tailing vehicles.

I needed to get away from him, but I needed to know what was inside that Union Station locker first.

“Union Station,” I lied smoothly, keeping my voice panicked but focused. “The decryption cypher isn't on the hard drive. It’s a dual-authentication lock. The physical cypher key is inside a storage locker at the train station.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. “Smart girl. Keep the data separated.”

When we arrived at the massive, echoing hall of Union Station, rush hour was in full swing. Thousands of commuters brushed past us. I led Julian toward the underground baggage storage terminal, gripping the metal key in my pocket.

“Locker 814,” I said, pointing down a narrow, deserted corridor of gray metal lockers.

“Stand back,” Julian commanded, drawing his weapon and holding it low against his thigh, out of sight from the crowd.

He stepped up to Locker 814. He demanded the key. I handed it to him, taking two slow steps backward toward the crowded concourse.

Julian slid the key into the lock. He turned it.

The heavy metal door popped open.

Julian reached inside and pulled out a heavy black canvas duffel bag. He unzipped it.

I saw his face completely drain of color.

There was no cypher inside the bag. There was only a block of C4 plastic explosive wired to a digital timer. The timer read: 00:03.

Julian looked up at me, pure murder in his eyes.

I didn't wait. I turned and sprinted blindly into the dense crowd of commuters just as a muffled, concussive BOOM shook the underground corridor.

The explosion wasn't large enough to collapse the ceiling, but it sent a shockwave of smoke, dust, and terrified screams echoing through the station. The fire alarms began blaring. People were shoving, running, and trampling each other to reach the exits.

I used the chaos to slip onto a departing Amtrak train bound for Detroit, dropping into a window seat and pulling my hood up.

I was shaking violently. I had just killed a man. Or at least, left him to die.

I pulled my laptop out of my bag, connected the bloody silver hard drive, and booted it up using the train’s Wi-Fi. I needed to see what was on the drive that made everyone willing to kill for it.

The files decrypted.

It wasn't a shipping manifest. It wasn't a list of human trafficking victims.

It was a highly classified genetic database. Millions of medical records, DNA profiles, and biometric scans stolen from hospitals across the country.

The syndicate wasn't trafficking random people. They were hunting specific genetic matches. Organ harvesting on an industrial, billionaire-funded scale.

I opened the active priority list. The people who were scheduled to be abducted by the ghost trucks tonight.

I scrolled down to target number four.

My breath stopped.

There, staring back at me from the screen, was a medical file with a photograph of a young woman.

It was my younger sister, Chloe.

The same sister who had died in a car crash seven years ago.

The next chapters are on the left side of your screen.