Mystery ~ MV1

006. Hansel and Gretel

[Agent A]

The roar of qualifying engines provided the perfect cover as I slipped through the paddock, my camera hanging around my neck more for show than function.

While other photographers crowded around the pit lane, trying to capture the perfect shot of cars screaming past at 180 mph, I had other targets in mind.

I quickly calculated the statistical probability of success as it was the only thing that convinced me to be this risky in the first place- qualifying sessions typically drew 89% of personnel to trackside activities, leaving behind only essential staff. The odds were in my favor, but that remaining 11% could still pose a problem.

The Mercedes facility loomed ahead, its pristine white exterior betraying nothing of the criminal activities I suspected lay within. I felt like Hansel and Gretel, too drawn in by the desire for more (more evidence rather than food) that I bluntly ignored the darkness that filled its interior walls and promised nothing comforting.

I couldn't help it. My skin itches and my mind raced with possibilities that had been paused the day before.

I'd spent yesterday establishing my cover as Melina Vincent, the French photographer, making connections, mapping out the facility's layout, talking to Dutch drivers...

Stop it Sydney , I chided myself as thoughts of a certain Dutch racing driver tried to creep in. I couldn't afford distractions, not when I was so close to uncovering Nicholas Vega's smuggling operation.

Today was about finding proof.

Using my peripheral vision to scan for witnesses, I slipped inside through a side entrance, my footsteps silent as I walked closer to the walls than the middle of the hallway to avoid creaks.

The corridor was empty, but I could hear distant voices from other rooms. I glanced at each name in silver plates before one caught my name and halted my steps.

"Marcus Bennet, Transportation Operations Manager."

The lock was pathetically simple to pick. Inside, the office was meticulously organized, which would make any alterations to documents obvious. I moved straight to the desk, my hands protected by thin, flesh-colored gloves i pulled on before I began examining transportation manifests.

I wasn't taking any chances on ruining evidence, I needed every bit of it.

Numbers flew through my head as I analyzed the logistics data, each number get sewn into a web as I connected one to another. "The average F1 team transports approximately 35 tons of equipment to European races," I muttered under my breath, the lost of a French accent felt weird but relieving. "Mercedes shows requisitions for two additional transport units beyond standard capacity..."

My fingers traced down the columns of numbers, my mind automatically calculating volume disparities. These extra units weren't just suspicious - they were mathematically impossible given the team's declared equipment list.

This was it - the proof I needed that they were moving something else entirely. Confidence floored my chest as I straightened my shoulders, a self accomplished smile peeling at my lips as I realized this was the confirmation I needed to be here now. Before it was a prayer that this was what was happening.

No I had my confirmation.

Just as I raised my camera to photograph the documents, footsteps echoed in the hallway. My heart rate spiked, but I breathed out slowly to keep calm as I evaluated options.

Window: too visible and high up. Desk: too obvious and small. The storage closet: optimal choice.

I slid inside just as the door opened, pressing myself between hanging garment bags and file boxes. Through the thin slats, I could make out Marcus Bennet's expensive Italian shoes and another pair I recognized as belonging to James Harris, the Equipment Manager.

"Vega's getting impatient," Harris's voice was tense. "The Dubai shipment is worth twice what we usually move."

"Tell him to relax," Bennet replied. "Monaco's the perfect cover. Security's focused on the celebrities and royals, not checking racing equipment. We'll move it during the post-race tear-down, we'll bring in our guy if there's trouble."

'Our guy' ?

There's another inside player or are they talking of Elena Rossi? Or perhaps another rat within the Mercedes team under pay rolls?

I didn't know and it made my skin itch.

The men continued talking for what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes, discussing drop points and payment schedules. My phone silently recorded every word for me to analyze later.

Finally, they left for what Harris called a "strategy meeting."

I waited exactly 75 seconds before emerging, quickly photographing the manifests and making sure everything was exactly as I'd found it. The information was damning - precise shipping routes, weight discrepancies, and coded references to cargo that had nothing to do with racing.

Slipping out of the office, I moved swiftly toward the exit, my mind already composing the encrypted message I'd send to headquarters. I looked down at my camera as I slipped my phone back into my pocket.

This thing would come in handy in more ways than one.

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Two updates for your birthday @Auriana_Violet