The paper was cheap, the ink slightly smeared from the humidity of the truck.

“What’s inside them?” I asked.

Calvin pulled a small pocket knife from his belt and sliced through the plastic seal.

He pried the lid open.

Inside were neat rows of glass vials, packed in styrofoam dividers.

The labels on the vials were printed with the Apex logo, but the expiration dates were missing.

“It’s surplus stock,” Calvin said, picking up one of the vials to inspect it. “Or rejected batches.”

“They wanted us to deliver this to the state hospital,” I said. “If we did, the hospital would have reported the bad batch, and the state would have terminated our contract immediately.”

“And Elliot’s name would be dragged through the mud,” Calvin added, his face grim.

“We need to get these crates out of the truck,” I said. “Now.”

“We don’t have the paperwork to send them back,” Marcus said, stepping up to the trailer door.

“We’re not sending them back,” I said. “We’re staging them in the dead-storage bay.”

“And the real shipment?” Calvin asked.