Chapter 1
I had been hauling cold-chain cargo for ten years, running routes from north to south without ever asking questions.
The loads ranged from live fish, frozen shrimp, oysters, and salmon to even medical shipments carrying organs for transplant.
In this line of work, everything came down to one thing: stability, which was stable temperature, stable timing, and steady nerves.
That night, around 3 a.m., I was driving along the Viremont–Lysara Expressway.
The cargo was a shipment of frozen fish, bound for a research institute in the southwest, with clean paperwork and nothing out of place.
I pulled into a service area, as usual, to check the refrigeration unit.
The moment I opened the truck doors, I froze.
The temperature reading was perfect—0.4 degrees Fahrenheit.
But a chill crawled up my spine anyway.
I didn't touch the cargo.
Three hours later, the entire expressway was locked down.
*****
I had been hauling refrigerated cargo for a full ten years now.
When I first started out, my mentor, Turner Goodman, gave me some advice.
He said, "Fernando, this job isn't hard, but you need to keep your eyes sharp.
"If the cargo's off, if the people are shady, or if the weather's acting up, you have to spot it.
"If you miss it, you could lose the load—or even your life."
I never forgot those words.
Ten years in this business, and I had never misjudged a load—not once.
It was still the dead of night when I pulled into the rest stop—dark as could be.
The highway was nearly deserted, just a handful of headlights flickering in the distance.
I stepped out, circled around to the back of the trailer, and checked the refrigeration unit's control panel.
The readout showed minus eighteen point two degrees Celsius.
Humidity was normal.
All the numbers were checked out.
I should've just climbed back in and kept going. But I didn't move.
I stood there, staring at that white metal door for a full thirty seconds.
Couldn't really say what it was, exactly.
It was like walking alone on a winter night. I couldn't see anything, but for some reason, a chill runs down my back.
Something was off.
I fished a lighter out of my pocket. It was a keepsake Turner left me.
An old, tarnished brass lighter, with an inscription: [The road's long. Keep your heart steady.]
Turner died in a car accident three years ago.
The last job he ever took was a refrigerated run, just like this one.
When I went to collect his things, I found this lighter sitting right there on his dashboard.
I had always had it on me, never once let it go.
Weird thing was, sometimes that lighter actually felt warm.
It was not the kind of heat I got from sunlight. It was a warmth from deep inside, almost like it was alive.
And right now, it was definitely warm to the touch, hotter than my own skin.
I clenched the lighter, took a deep breath, and pulled open the refrigerated trailer door.
A cloud of frosty air billowed out as soon as the door swung open.
I turned on my headlamp and inspected the boxes one by one.
The frozen fish were stacked in perfect rows, each box with its own label.
Species: yellow croaker.
Origin: some fish farm by the coast.
Expiration dates, quarantine papers, transport permits—every box had them, nothing was missing.
I crouched down and casually flipped open one of the boxes from the bottom row.
Inside were silvery-white frozen fish, their eyes cloudy and their scales perfectly intact.
Everything seemed perfectly normal, but when my hand touched the plastic wrap, I froze.
Something was wrong with the temperature.
The surface of the box was just slightly warmer than the frozen fish around it.
I couldn't see it with my eyes, and even the sensors might miss it, but I could feel it with my hand.
I set the box down and grabbed a few more at random to check.
Out of the thirty boxes, five had temperatures that just weren't right.
But their placement wasn't random.
They were spread out deliberately—one in each corner, and one right in the middle, like someone had deliberately arranged them that way.
I pulled out my phone and glanced at the shipping order.
Sender: Vantaris Life Sciences.
I never heard of them.
I had been in the cold chain for years. It was a big seafood outfit on the coast, and I knew them all.
This one didn't show up anywhere.
I took a deep breath, the cold air stinging my lungs, and closed the trailer door behind me.
I didn't get back on the road.
I grabbed my phone and called the cops.
After I finished explaining, the dispatcher went quiet for a few seconds.
She asked, "Sir, you're saying there's something wrong with the frozen fish?"
I replied, "Yeah. I think there's something hidden in this load."
"What is it?" she asked.
"I don't know. But it's not fish," I said.
She paused for a few seconds.
"Please stay where you are. We'll send someone over," she said.
I hung up and lit up a smoke.
The wind was strong, making the flame waver.
I gripped the lighter tighter. It was still warm.
Was I going crazy?