Marcus shifted his forklift into gear. “Where do we start?”

“We unpack the Apex crates,” I said. “We load only the certified medical cargo.”

The workers didn’t say another word.

They immediately split up, some grabbing manual pallet jacks while Marcus maneuvered the forklift.

I climbed down from the dock and joined them, grabbing the cold metal handle of a jack.

My muscles ached almost immediately, but I didn’t stop.

For the next two hours, the warehouse was a blur of motion.

We hauled the suspicious Apex crates to the back corner of the facility, locking them behind the chain-link security fence.

We loaded the genuine insulin, checking every single barcode against the original state manifest.

My phone buzzed several times in my pocket, but I ignored it.

The sweat on my forehead turned to ice whenever I got too close to the open bay doors.

Outside, the snow was piling up against the concrete ramp, a white wall building against the dark night.

Around four in the morning, the heavy glass doors of the main entrance rattled.

I froze, my hands still on a shipping crate.