Twelve Hours Early

Rain began at dusk. Grayport Salvage Yard looked like a rusted beast feeding on equipment the rest of Haicheng had discarded. Its owner, Han Zheng, owed Lin for two vehicle repairs. After hearing his request, Han pointed toward a mountain of electronic waste. “That load came from an old Obsidian Communications warehouse this afternoon. Take whatever you want. Whether it works is up to fate.” After an hour, Lin had found only routers with burned boards or remote locks. He was about to give up when lightning illuminated something deep in the heap: a silver-gray metal case with no logo, no screw holes, and a narrow black groove like a closed eye.