“At 10:15, Truck 42 leaves the Kent industrial corridor carrying pediatric antibiotics that were exposed to temperatures above safety thresholds for nearly six hours last night.”

“The logs were falsified by the shift supervisor to read as a ‘nine-minute minor fluctuation.’ If that truck departs, Pierce Meridian Group is criminally liable for distributing compromised medication to a military base.”

The Head of Compliance, a sharp-eyed woman, started typing.

Owen laughed, harsh and dismissive. “This is a joke. Northstar passed our four-hundred-million-dollar acquisition review with flying colors. We rely on verified ambient data, not the vindictive fantasies of a fired line worker.”

“Owen,” Grayson warned, his voice a low growl.

“No, let him speak,” I said, and pulled my trump card from my pocket — a printed screenshot of an internal dispatch code from three a.m. “I have the route code. I have the supervisor’s ID login. Call the dock. Tell them to physically test the ambient temperature of the vials. Don’t look at the computer. Touch the glass.”