Marcus Bromley folded the note twice and slid it into his coat pocket. The handoff location was clear. That was the good news. The bad news sat under the same line of ink: his source wanted goods now, not caps. He looked out across the junkyard he was building into something bigger, something the whole region would have to come through, and ran the numbers in his head. The note named the price. One vintage circuit board, exposed traces and rare chips intact. Marcus knew the piece. It sat wrapped in oilcloth inside a locked cargo bed across the yard, the old truck's faded paint hiding stock no buyer would ever see. He walked to it now, keys already in hand. Losing that board would cost him a future deal. Keeping it would cost him this one. He unlocked the bed and lifted the board into a canvas bag. Then he crossed to the cracked concrete bench near the fence line and crouched. The loose brick under the seat came free with a tug. He pushed the bag into the hollow behind it and seated the brick back in place. Drop made. Source would collect after dark. Marcus stood and brushed grit from his palms. The comm equipment was as good as his. So was a hole in his inventory he hadn't planned for, and a source who now knew exactly what he was willing to give up.

Marcus was still brushing grit from his hands when Achilles came around the truck, hat low, voice lower. "Someone's asking who owns the land over the old carrier." He didn't blink. "Came through the coffee hut this morning. Twice." Marcus followed him to the fence line. From there, the refurbished coffee hut sat in plain view across the lot — and so did the new thing on its roof. A camo-patterned case, propped open like a laptop bag set to watch. A small lens caught the sun. Someone had turned a coffee stop into a blind. "That wasn't there yesterday," Achilles said. "Strap's still clean. Whoever set it wants eyes on the dish ground, not the road." Marcus ran the angles fast. Confront the watcher and burn cover. Tear the rig down and tip his hand. Or feed it a story. He chose the third. He waved the tuxedo cat mechanic over from the bay, handed him a yellow first-responder case from the shelf, and told him to walk it across the lot like a delivery — slow, visible, boring. Let the lens record a junkyard that sold medical gear, nothing more. The mechanic strolled out, case swinging, tail high. Achilles watched the rooftop. No movement. No pullback. Whoever was on the other end stayed quiet, which told Marcus more than a reaction would have. They were patient. They were funded. And they already knew enough to point a lens at the right square of dirt. "Pull the carrier over the soft ground by dusk," Marcus said. "Park it like it's been dead a year." Achilles nodded once and went. Marcus stayed at the fence a moment longer, watching the little lens watch him back. The comm deal could still close. But the yard he was building had just been measured by someone he couldn't see — and that price wasn't priced in yet.