Vance was already scanning the barcodes on the side of the crates with his handheld terminal.

“The database shows these modules were marked as destroyed at the Barstow depot last month,” he said.

“But they were never destroyed,” I said. “They were rerouted here.”

“This is enough to secure a federal warrant for Gregory’s entire operation,” Vance said.

He began taking high-resolution digital photographs of the open crates and the shipping manifests.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic clunk echoed from the rear of the warehouse.

We all froze.

The sound came from the ventilation shafts high up on the wall.

“Did you hear that?” Eleanor whispered, grabbing my sleeve.

“It’s just the climate control system cycling,” Vance said, though his hand remained on his weapon.

He finished taking the photos and slipped the camera back into his vest pocket.

“We need to get these physical manifests back to the office,” Vance said, reaching for the clipboard.

Before he could grab them, a low hum filled the room, followed by a soft, repetitive beep.

I turned my flashlight toward the corner desk where a computer terminal sat.