The Rust-End depot was a roaring beast of chrome and neon. Pulsating synth-wave music thumped against the corrugated iron walls, vibrating up through Selah’s playpen. The space, usually a dusty cavern of forgotten machinery, had been transformed into a glitzy, high-stakes casino of ambition. Spotlights carved paths through synthetic fog, illuminating dozens of potential investors, all clad in their finest 80s power suits and sequined dresses, sipping iridescent blue cocktails. Her crib was nestled precariously close to the main stage, where Vance, a shark in a cream linen suit, dominated the floor, schmoozing a pair of stocky men in matching jade green jackets. Selah’s gaze wasn’t on the gaudy spectacle. It was on the small, secured catwalk booth perched above the main floor, its reinforced door glowing faintly under a solitary utility light. That was Vance’s temporary command center. That was where the master floppy disk, storing the true offshore account numbers for Apex Link Holdings, was undoubtedly tucked away. Suddenly, a familiar series of clicks and clacks echoed from beneath her crib. Morse code. It was faint, almost lost in the din, but Selah recognized the arrogant rhythm immediately. *I’m in. Back entrance. Floor is a zoo.* Selah’s tiny fist clenched. Corin. She tapped her rubber ducky against the plastic bars of her playpen, a rapid, urgent pattern: *Disk. Upper booth. Now.* Minutes later, a flash of red and blue zipped past her field of vision. Corin, in his miniature racing-striped stroller, a matching blue helmet strapped firmly over his fluffy blonde hair, navigated the crowded floor with impossible agility. His tiny legs, barely reaching the pedals, blurred as he weaved through the throngs of adults, a blur of concentrated mischief. He was heading for the service elevator, tucked away behind a stack of empty pager boxes. Selah’s internal clock was ticking like a bomb. Vance was slated to make his “grand announcement” and “finalize paperwork” in less than an hour. She watched, a knot forming in her stomach, as Corin, with surprising strength, managed to pry open the elevator door and disappear inside. The seconds stretched, each one a sharp tug on Selah’s nerves. Then, the booth door up on the walkway cracked open. Corin, helmet askew, his face a mask of furious concentration, emerged with a small, beige floppy disk clutched in one hand. He’d done it. Tension eased in Selah's shoulders. But just as Corin turned to make his escape, a shadow fell over him. Old Man Vance. He stood there, a predatory smile stretching his thin lips, his eyes glinting under the harsh overhead bulb. He hadn’t been on the stage. He’d been watching the door. “Well, well, what have we here?” Vance’s voice cut sharp and low through the baseline rumble. He reached out, his long fingers closing around Corin’s overalls. The toddler dangled, floppy disk still clutched, his little legs kicking wildly in the air. Vance plucked the disk from his grasp with an almost casual flick of the wrist. “Such a curious little fella, aren’t we?” Corin thrashed, a wordless shriek escaping his lips. Vance then reached for the blue sippy cup clipped to Corin’s stroller, unhooking it. “And this… this isn’t for juice, is it?” He eyed the intricate Morse code etched into its side. “Smart boy. Too smart for your own good.” With a sneer, he crushed the sippy cup in his hand, the plastic cracking with an audible snap. Their communication was gone. Corin was helpless. And Selah was trapped. Vance walked toward the edge of the iron walkway, Corin still dangling. He was going to drop him. Or worse, expose him. Her gaze locked onto a large red lever on an upper support pillar, marked “FIRE SUPPRESSION – SPRINKLER OVERRIDE.” Corin's heels battered Vance's shins with frantic, rhythmic kicks. With a ferocious grunt, Selah used all her six-month-old might, kicking her legs, throwing her head back, and launching herself forward in her crib. Her head connected with the emergency call button on the side of her playpen, designed for parental alerts. It was a long shot, but sometimes these things were wired to general alarm systems. A piercing alarm blared, momentarily silencing the synth-wave music. The adults on the floor looked up, confused. Vance paused, startled, but his grip on Corin remained firm. The alarm was not enough. Selah screamed. A raw, guttural cry that ripped through her throat. She pounded her fists against the plastic, her eyes fixed on that red lever. *Someone! Pull the lever!* Bram, who had been chatting animatedly with Dessa near the back, heard Selah’s cry. He glanced up, saw Vance pinning Corin aloft, and went chalk-white. He started pushing through the crowd, Dessa right behind him. Corin, seeing Bram, renewed his struggles, wriggling with all his might. The movement, combined with Vance’s momentary distraction, made the older man stumble back a step. His free hand instinctively reached for something to steady himself, and by sheer, desperate luck, it landed squarely on the fire suppression lever. He pulled it. A collective gasp rippled through the warehouse. The synth-wave music sputtered and died completely. Then, with a deafening hiss, the overhead sprinkler system roared to life. Cold water erupted from dozens of nozzles, drenching the entire gala in a cascade of icy rain. The delicate canapés dissolved, the neon lights flickered wildly, and the power-suited investors screamed, their expensive clothes ruined, their hair plastered to their heads. Vance, soaked and sputtering, dropped Corin onto the steel walkway, his attention now diverted to the pandemonium. “What in the blazes! My gala! My investors!” He raged, shaking his fist at the ceiling. Selah, drenched but triumphant, watched as Dessa scooped up a shivering Corin, comforting him. Bram, looking utterly bewildered, just stood there, dripping. The gala was a disaster. But Corin was safe, and the disk was retrieved. Amidst the chaos, Vance’s eyes, filled with cold fury, found Bram. He grabbed the drenched, confused factory worker by the arm. “You! Come with me! We still have to finalize things!” He practically dragged Bram toward the elevated room, ignoring the soaking crowd, the wailing alarms, and Dessa’s shouts. Vance shoved Bram inside the room, the door slamming shut with a resounding thud. Through the grimy window, Selah could just make out Vance’s silhouette, forcing Bram to sit at the desk, illuminated by the harsh light of a computer monitor. On the screen, rows of offshore figures flickered. Vance was going to force Bram to sign, to take ownership of Apex Link Holdings, right here, right now, amidst the ruin. Then, through the cacophony of sprinklers and alarms, a new sound began to filter in from the distance. A piercing, rising wail. Not the internal alarm. Sirens. Multiple ones. They were converging on the depot. They were coming for Bram.

The Stroller Stakeout