Behind us, headlights appeared in the distance, cutting through the heavy rain.

“Lock the doors,” Adrian said.

His voice was flat and calm despite the sudden darkness of the dashboard.

I hit the lock button.

The mechanical click sounded incredibly loud in the quiet cabin of the stalled SUV.

Rain pelted the windshield in heavy, rhythmic slaps.

Behind us, the headlights grew larger, cutting through the downpour like two yellow eyes.

My phone buzzed again in my hand.

The deletion progress bar on the screen ticked up to thirty-five percent.

“They are scrubbing the server,” I said.

I pulled my tablet from my work bag, my fingers already cold.

“They aren’t just locking us out,” I said. “They are erasing the entire shipping manifest database.”

“Who has that level of access?” Adrian asked.

He reached into the glove compartment.

He pulled out a sleek, black handgun, checking the chamber with a quiet, practiced slide.

“Only the executive committee,” I replied.

I watched the percentage on my phone climb to thirty-eight.

“And the board of directors,” I added.

The headlights behind us stopped fifty yards back.