Chum

Fucking hell, it's cold out. I'm talking bone-chilling, teeth-chattering, balls-shriveling cold. The kind of cold that makes you wonder why the fuck you ever thought living in a place that sees actual winters was a good idea. But here my Black ass is, trudging through the snow-covered docks of Philly like I'm on some sort of masochistic scavenger hunt. The things I do for this gig, man.

I pull my coat tighter around me, trying to block out the wind that seems to be blowing in from every goddamn direction at once. The snow's coming down hard now, fat flakes swirling through the air and sticking to every surface like the dandruff of some giant, frigid asshole in the sky. It'd almost be pretty if it wasn't making my job a hell of a lot harder than it needs to be.

I'm out here on a tip, see. Word on the street is that the Kingdom of Keys has some sort of operation going down at this particular dock, something to do with 5245 Bleigh Ave. Now, normally I wouldn't give two shits what a bunch of criminal assholes are up to in their free time, but ever since Sam clued me in on their whole deal, I can't seem to let it go. It's like a fucking itch in my brain that I just gotta scratch, even if it means freezing my nuts off in the process.

I pause for a second, ducking behind a stack of crates to catch my breath and scope out the scene. The dock's bustling with activity despite the shitty weather, workers scurrying around like ants as they unload massive containers from the cargo ship that's pulled up to the pier. I squint my eyes, trying to make out the details through the swirling snow. There, on the side of some of the equipment –- "Tacony Metal Works". I've seen that name before, connected to some shell companies the Kingdom uses as fronts for their shadier business dealings.

Bingo. Looks like I'm in the right place after all. Now I just gotta figure out what kind of fuckery they're up to this time and put a stop to it before anyone gets hurt. Easier said than done, of course, especially with Marionette sitting this one out. Don't get me wrong, the girl's got skills, but she's also got a stick up her ass the size of the Liberty Bell. Always going on about "proper procedure" and "gathering evidence" like we're on some kinda shitty cop drama. Me? I prefer a more direct approach.

I take a deep breath, feeling the cold air burn in my lungs as I ready myself for what's to come. Thems powers are always ready to go. Time for these Kingdom bitches to learn that they can't get away with their bullshit, not on my watch. Not in my motherfucking city.

Creeping closer to the action, I stick to the shadows, marking every object I see for later soundjacking. I can feel their vibrations through my soles, singing softly through the thin leather of my sneaks. Ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice. A forklift beeps loudly as it reverses, prompting a string of creative cursing from a giant of a dude in a hard hat. I collect both and save them for later. Never know when a good "fuck" might come in handy, even if the guy seems a little confused by one of his fucks disappearing.

As I slip past the first layer of security, I can't help but marvel at how easy it is, even without Marionette's little jedi mind tricks. A quick burst of generic dock noise, played back from a crate I marked earlier, and the guards are off running in the wrong direction like a pair of bloodthirsty dogs chasing a steak on a string. Idiots. Who needs a high-vis vest, a clipboard, and the ability to look important, when you can just make people think a forklift is about to crash into something important?

Their stupidity is my gain, though, and I press forward, hugging the walls as I strain my ears for any juicy tidbits of info. And oh, do I strike gold. Two goons in matching black beanies are huddled together, their gaze locked on a clipboard as they jabber on about something called "Operation Ivory". I recognize the one on the left, a graying Asian dude with a thick Philly accent. We've danced this jig before.

"Make sure the climate control units are up and running," he says, tapping the clipboard with a stubby finger. "Boss says we gotta keep them elephants happy and healthy all the way to Joburg. Some rich fucks there gonna pay out they nose for this ivory."

"Eles? I thought we was moving rhinos," the other one asks, scratching his balls through his jeans.

"Nah, it's them too. They're bringing in a breeding pair from Cote d'Ivoire. Real rare shit, man. White rhinos. Got horns almost as magic as my johnson."

I shake my head in disgust. Poaching, huh? I mean, I'm all for enterprising individuals getting they paper, but this? How... lazy. I store that little exchange away for later, making sure my phone is set to voice record. The two of them look around in confusion for a second as their sentences vanish in bits and pieces. "What? What'd you say?" the other one asks, and they chalk it up to the wind, or something.

Deeper into the maze of shipping containers I creep, my breath puffing out in little clouds of mist. The snow's coming down even harder now, blanketing everything in a layer of pristine white that almost – almost – makes this shithole of an operation look peaceful. But I know better. Wolves in sheep's clothing, all of 'em.

The "wolves" seem hush now, their conversations dropping to a low murmur as they eye their surroundings warily. Guess even they don't fully trust their own people. Smart, if you ask me. Honor among thieves only goes so far when there's this much cash on the line.

I spot a small group of them clustered around a shipping container that's been tucked away behind some others, half-hidden from view. They're moving awkwardly though, stiff like they ain't used to the freezing temperature either. Dressed too nice for longshoremen. Something's off. I slink closer, my ears strained to the limit.

"Easy with that one," a sharp-dressed brother in a black pea-coat snaps. "Merchandise inside is incredibly delicate. Mark and Jonesy already dropped a crate and nearly let it take a tumble into the Delaware."

"It won't happen again," says a voice from inside the container. A woman wearing a hijab and snow goggles appears at the entrance, hopping down nimbly despite carrying a metallic case of some kind. Something rattles around inside it as she lands.

"See that it doesn't," Pea-Coat says coldly. "Mr. P won't accept anything less than perfection. You saw what happened to Ernesto when he botched that Florida shipment."

The woman stiffens, her grip tightening on the case. I don't even wanna imagine what could make a battle-hardened vet like her go rigid at memory's touch. But from the way Pea-Coat smiles, wolflike, I get the feeling that Ernesto didn't exactly receive a gold watch and a happy retirement for his fuckup. I fumble for my directional mic and mark the receiver in my head - easier to steal when nobody notices they're getting jacked from. Fuck, it's cold.

The sound of something shuffling inside the container makes my ears prick up. Then that same voice from before, softer and muffled: "Hey...should we be divvying up the extras between runs, or keeping them entirely separate? We still gotta work the second phase of the op."

My eyes narrow. What are they talking about? Second phase? I creep in a little closer, trying to pick up more of the conversation, but I'm forced to duck back as two more goons amble past, their black boots crunching loudly in the fresh powder.

"Weather's only gonna worsen," Pea-Coat is saying as I tune back into the briefing. "We'll have to move fast before the river ices over. Get that prime cargo loaded up ASAP, then come back for the smalls. Rhinos first, elephants by Christmas."

So there's a timetable, at least. Useful intel. Thanks Mr. PC. I'm already mentally mapping out my next steps, deciding which of my contacts are best equipped to handle such a large scale investigation. Maybe that new chick at the Inquirer. She seems hungry enough to make a name for herself.

"What about the other...packages?" Hijab asks, hesitating on the last word.

Pea-Coat waves a hand dismissively. "We'll save those for phase two, once the heat dies down. Too risky to move it all at once, even with Richardson running interference."

Richardson? As in Maya Richardson, on city council? The fuck does she have to do with all this? I feel a headache coming on, the kind that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the tangled web of corruption that seems to infect every nook and cranny of this city.

Hijab shifts uncomfortably, the metal case clinking gently at her side. She opens her mouth as if to protest, but Pea-Coat silences her with a glare. "Just do your job and don't ask questions above your pay grade. We've got plans within plans. You'd do well to remember that."

With that, he stalks off, barking orders to the rest of his crew. They hop to with a quickness that speaks to the kinda hell they'll catch if they're perceived as slacking. Fear's a hell of a motivator. Easier than respect, and twice as potent.

I stay crouched there for a minute, trying to parse everything I've just heard. Animals. Illegal ivory trade. Secret plans and second phases. And now a possible link to the government. It's a lot to take in, even for a seasoned snoop like me. Usually the Kingdom's ambitions aren't so far-reaching, focused more on drugs and weapons and shaking down folks on their own turf. This feels… different. Bigger, somehow.

I'm so lost in thought that I barely notice the guard coming around the corner until it's almost too late. For a heart-stopping moment, I'm sure I'm made. But years of thinking on my feet have honed my reflexes to a razor's edge, and I'm marking and snagging the sound of that forklift from earlier in the span of a single blink.

The whine of the forklift's reverse alarm blares out from a spot some thirty feet to the guard's left, sending him spinning around to investigate the perceived threat. Sucker. I use the distraction to slip away, heart pounding with the thrill of a narrow escape. A little too close for comfort, but that's the game when you're dealing with big fish like this. No risk, no reward, right?

My quick escape route takes me even deeper into the maze of shipping containers, each one nondescript, yet menacing in their uniformity. Any one of them could be hiding untold horrors within their corrugated metal walls, and I'd be none the wiser. Or they could just be normal shipping containers. Who really knows?

I know I'm pushing my luck by going in further, but something keeps me from turning back just yet. Call it gut instinct, call it a stubborn streak a mile wide, call it whatever the fuck you want, but I know there's more to uncover here. The Kingdom's plans within plans, as Hijab was so fond of reminding. I'll be damned if I leave with a half-finished puzzle.

So I press on, my sneaks now silent in the thickening snowdrifts that have begun to accumulate between the containers. My breath comes out in ragged puffs, each exhale a miniature cloud that dissipates into the swirling white. As I pick my way carefully through this labyrinth of metal and misery, I start to notice a change in the atmosphere. The noise of the docks is fading away, replaced by an eerie stillness that feels almost oppressive.

It's the kind of quiet that only exists in places where dark shit goes down on the regular. A palpable absence of life, of laughter, of anything resembling humanity. I've felt it before, in crackhouses and trap spots and abandoned warehouses where the only sounds are the skittering of rats and the whisper of ghosts. It's the kinda silence that makes your skin crawl and your hair stand on end. Some primal part of you knows, just knows, that you're walking on haunted ground.

I'm about to call it quits, my sense of self-preservation finally overriding my curiosity, when I hear it. Voices, low and urgent, coming from just around the next stack of containers. They sound agitated, almost angry, like whoever's talking is barely keeping their composure in check. I crouch down, pressing my back against the frigid metal, and strain my ears to listen.