The storm came in fast, flattening the city lights into a smear of white and red against the
windscreen. Elara Kline tightened her grip on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the flickering
glow of an almost-dead dashboard bulb. The wipers struggled to clear the downpour. Her eyes
burnt from caffeine, sleeplessness, and the weight of names that had never made it into print.
Girls. Boys. Men, undocumented workers. She had traced their last known movements across
payphones, encrypted chats, and bank transfers that smelt like blood money. It had led here.
A license plate she had memorized from grainy traffic cam footage. A warehouse near the docks,
tucked between legal shipments, in front of it was parked a black sedan that did not belong, the
same one she had seen in three cities and two countries.
Elara's jaw clenched. She reached for her phone on the passenger seat, its screen cracked from
too many nights like this. No signal. The storm had swallowed the network. Or someone had
jammed it.
The sedan behind her did not attempt to pass. It hovered, close enough that its headlights
drowned her interior in harsh white. The road ahead curved along the river, a narrow stretch
hemmed in by rusted guardrails and black water.
She had pushed too hard. She knew it now. She had followed money that was not supposed to be
traced, walked into bars where men spoke in low voices and paused when she stepped too close.
She had photographed faces through long lenses and memorized tattoos peeking from under
expensive cuffs.
Human trafficking did not like witnesses.
Her hands were damp on the leather wheel. "Not tonight," she murmured to no one.
Headlights flashed in her rear-view. Once. Twice. A signal or warning.
Her heart lurched, but her mind remained cold. She had rehearsed what she would do in a
moment like this. Accelerate. Do not brake. Find light and people.
She pressed down on the gas.
The engine protested, then complied. Her little car surged forward, tyres spitting dirty water. The
sedan behind her responded without hesitation, gliding closer, matching her speed. She could not
make out the driver.
Another curve approached, tighter, hugging the edge of the river. The guardrail was old. She
knew it because she had driven this road a hundred times after stakeouts, after interviews.
The sedan swung into the oncoming lane and moved up beside her. Its tinted windows reflected
her face back at her for a heartbeat, pale and strained. The car drifted closer, too close, metal
flirting with metal.
"No," she whispered, muscles locked. She held her line.
The impact was almost gentle. A sideways kiss of steel. Her car jolted, then the other vehicle
shoved harder, a deliberate, grinding push. Her tyres screech. The world tilted. The guardrail
loomed.
She realised that no one would ever see the story she was working on. No one would read the
files on her encrypted drives or hear the recordings saved under innocuous names. The people
she had promised herself she would save would remain statistics and cold case notes.
The sedan rammed her again.
The guardrail crumpled. Her car slid through the gap with a shriek that felt like it tore her
eardrums. She saw nothing but rain and spinning shadows. The nose of the vehicle dipped, then
plunged. The river rose up to swallow her.
Impact.
Cold exploded through the windscreen. A shattering roar was followed by a violence of water
that punched the breath from her lungs. Her seatbelt bit into her chest. Glass bit into her face,
arms, and hands. The car spun in the dark, weightless for a single surreal moment. Then gravity
dragged it down.
She clawed at the belt buckle. It stuck. Panic surged, wild and useless. Her chest burnt. She
tasted blood and river salt. The world narrowed to black water and the frantic sound of her heart.
This is how it ends.
The thought came without drama, without the montage of memories people talked about. There
was only a stark, bitter recognition of failure. She had been so close. She had seen the names.
The shipping manifests. The offshore accounts. She had followed one final thread, and someone
had decided she had gone too far.
Her lungs convulsed. Instinct tore at her, ordering her to inhale. Water pushed past her lips. She
thought of a photograph in a case file. A girl with a chipped tooth and a fake diamond necklace,
smiling like she believed she would live long enough to need braces.
"I am sorry," Elara tried to say, but the river filled her instead.