“No hello?”

“The drivers are stuck. The gates won’t open. The server keeps asking for a code sent to your phone.”

“That sounds like two-factor authentication.”

“Do not talk to me like I’m stupid.”

I looked out the window at a driver in a lime vest lighting a cigarette under the awning. Rain dripped from the brim of his cap.

“Krystal, I don’t work there anymore. If I provide security credentials to a company system after termination, that could be unauthorized access.”

“You are holding us hostage.”

“No. I am complying with the termination Travis executed.”

There was muffled shouting. Then Travis came on.

“Enough,” he snapped. “Give me the code.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“You think this is cute?”

“I think it’s tragic.”

“I’ll sue you into the dirt.”

“You fired the account administrator before transferring account administration. That is not dirt. That is your org chart.”

He breathed hard through his nose. I could hear the office chaos behind him: phones ringing, someone shouting about Bay 14, Krystal saying, “Tell her we can call the FBI.”

“Judy,” Travis said, lower now, trying for control. “Come in. Fix this. We’ll discuss terms.”

“You told me I was replaceable.”

“Don’t be childish.”

There it was again, that little blade.

Twenty-two years of labor, and a man who had never sweated through a port delay called me childish.

“Travis,” I said, “check the refrigerated fleet in Miami. Fuel card renewals were manual because your automation vendor never integrated Florida exceptions.”

A pause.

“What?”

“Cards expired at midnight.”

He swore.

I hung up.

Then I called Miami Mike, because innocent drivers and spoiled food were not on my revenge menu.

“Mike,” I said when he answered, “hook Arcadia reefers to shore power. Use the emergency contingency account ending 1187. Prefunded. Don’t release trucks without lawful authorization.”

“You out, Mama Bear?”

“Yes.”

“Kid screwed up?”

“Deeply.”

“We’ll save the shrimp,” he said. “But not his ass.”

I smiled for the first time that day.

Then an alert flashed across my screen.

Department of Transportation incident report.

Arcadia vehicle involved in multi-car collision. Possible hazardous spill. I-80 westbound.

My coffee turned sour in my mouth.

Because the chemical load Sal refused to move had somehow moved anyway.

### Part 5

I called Sal with my thumb already shaking.

He answered before the first ring finished.

“Tell me,” I said.

“It wasn’t one of mine,” he said. His voice had lost all its gravel. It sounded scraped clean. “Hear me? It wasn’t one of my guys.”

“The chemical load?”

“Travis booked a spot-market driver through a freight app. No union. No history. No hazmat endorsement on file that anyone can find.”

I closed my eyes.

In logistics, incompetence usually costs money first.

When it costs blood, everything changes.

“Driver?”

“Alive. Hospital. Two cars clipped, no fatalities reported yet. Solvent leak across two lanes. EPA inbound. DOT already asking who authorized movement.”

I stared at the red dots on my screen until they blurred.

The Depot kept moving around me. Forks against plates. Marge laughing at something near the counter. Rain tapping the glass. A man in a CAT hat arguing about the Raiders.

Normal life is rude that way. It keeps going while yours splits down the middle.

“Judy,” Sal said softly, “you need a lawyer.”

“I need the original safety file.”

“You still have access?”