Chapter 9: Shadows of Law

Cavite Customs Node

2:21 A.M.

The air was thicker down here, salt-laced and humid, laced with the ghost of diesel fuel and rat piss. Louie sat in the back office of the newly claimed customs node, a half-lit LED lamp swaying slightly overhead. Across the room, Foxtrot-06 stood against the doorframe like a concrete statue, the RPK draped across his broad chest like it belonged there since birth.

The facility was operational.

Already, three crates had been routed through the yard. Weapons bound for southbound buyers—Trece Martires, Bacoor, and a freelance enforcer group operating quietly along the coastal highway near Naic.

Louie had spent all of the past twenty-four hours setting up relay logistics. Not with text. Not with voice. Just clean digital handoffs through modified burners, drop phones, and couriers who didn't ask questions as long as the money flowed.

He could feel it now—how the machine was starting to run without him pushing every part. Passive income ticked on every minute like a tide slowly building beneath his feet.

CURRENT BALANCE: ₱148,000

EARNING: ₱100 / MIN

SPENT TOTAL: ₱1,320,000

He swiped through the current pending jobs.

▸ Deal 078 — Silang (₱420K order, rifles + vests)

▸ Deal 080 — Alabang (₱280K, SMGs + attachments)

▸ Deal 081 — Taguig (₱120K, six handguns, client unknown)

That last one was strange.

No buyer history. No link to any previous contacts. No heat check passed.

He didn't like that.

He flagged it for surveillance.

4:18 A.M. — Old Trainyard, Taguig

Delta-04 and Echo-05 took up their positions across the abandoned train lot just fifteen minutes before the handoff. Fog pressed low to the gravel. Beyond a rusting carriage, the buyer stood waiting — hood up, hands in pockets, face obscured.

Too still.

Too clean.

Delta-04 murmured into his lapel mic. "Possible tail."

Echo-05 replied, "White van parked two blocks down. Engine still hot."

Louie's voice came quiet through the line. "Pull out. Don't initiate."

Both men ghosted out through the ruins without a trace.

Five minutes later, the trainyard flooded with headlights and shouting.

PDEA.

No arrests.

But they were looking now.

6:36 A.M. — Warehouse, Sampaloc

Louie scrubbed the CCTV footage himself, frame by frame. He stared hard at the slow rise of agents from the vans, the way they moved in sync, the small glints of standard-issue SIGs at their sides. Not local beat cops. Not CIDG. Real task force boys.

They'd moved with intel.

Not instinct.

Someone had whispered his ghost into the wrong ears.

He swiped to his encrypted logs, tapped out a new transfer:

"Begin rotation protocol. Sampaloc node loadout moves to Caloocan by 1800. No trails. Burn crates post-transfer."

Another message:

"Client 081 — confirmed honey trap. Drop all comms. Deep-wipe burner network."

Then he opened the Summon tab.

Time to double the guards.

UNIT: GOLF-07

Height: 6'2

Build: Slender, wiry

Skin: Pale

Hair: Black ponytail

Clothes: Tactical hoodie, dark fatigues

Face: Burn on chin, left eye slightly twitching

Gear: G36 rifle — ₱5,500

Armor: Tactical mesh — ₱2,200

Ammo: 3 mags — ₱270

Total Cost: ₱157,970

NEW BALANCE: ₱-9,970

The soldier shimmered into place and immediately took post beside the north gate.

System balance ticked.

₱0... ₱100... ₱200...

Louie exhaled slowly.

Everything was tightening.

12:48 P.M. — "Lucky Bamboo" Tea House, Makati

Across the table from him sat a man with slick hair and a strange smile. No name, no phone. Just a printout of a bank receipt for ₱1.2 million.

"Your products work," the man said in a clipped Cebuano accent.

Louie sipped tea and said nothing.

"We have… shipping interests. Outside of the country. Singapore. Sabah. Papua."

Louie didn't blink.

"Arms move well in those waters," the man continued. "But my people… they lack supply."

He slid a folder across the table. Inside: images of freighters. Port schedules. A list of known checkpoints and which ones were blind.

"If you want to earn beyond your slums, this is the play."

Louie looked at the photos.

Then he looked at the man.

And he smiled.

3:03 P.M. — Cavite Customs Node

The air felt different now. Lighter. Louder. He watched as crates began stacking neatly in preparation for their first port run.

This wasn't just shadow arms dealing anymore.

This was export.

This was empire.

And far across the city, in a dim room filled with monitors and radio chatter, a man with an agency badge stared at a blurry photo printed on cheap surveillance paper.

A figure in a black hoodie.

Surrounded by soldiers.

Unidentified.

Undefinable.

But always one step ahead.