Thank goodness.
Mike reacted instantly, shooting out a hand and catching the falling can before it hit the ground.
His grip closed firmly around the damn thing.
The whole movement was silent.
His arm trembled slightly from the sudden burst of tension and effort.
He carefully set the can down beside him, then made a quick hand signal: safe… and sorry.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
Leah gave a small nod. She didn't scold him, but the warning in her eyes was unmistakable: there won't be a second time.
At the factory entrance, the man wearing the red scarf glanced suspiciously toward their direction and listened carefully for several seconds.
Aside from the wind and the distant groans of walkers, nothing stirred.
"Damn stray cats or rats…" he muttered.
He shook his head, slipped the pistol back into his waistband, and walked back through the side door.
The crisis passed.
The four-man team remained frozen behind cover like statues for a full five minutes. Only after they were certain the danger had passed did they slowly relax.
"That was close, man," Carver whispered, barely audible, patting Mike's shoulder.
Bossie pointed toward a rusted fire ladder along the factory wall. It led up to a half-open ventilation window on the second floor.
"We can enter there. The noise inside will cover us."
Leah evaluated the situation quickly.
The risk was high. But the potential intelligence could be priceless.
They needed to know what was happening inside—and who this Lorenzo really was.
"Move," she decided.
"Bossie, Carver. External security and extraction."
"Mike, you're with me."
"Radio silence unless it's critical. If anything goes wrong, fall back according to Plan C."
"Understood."
Leah and Mike moved like shadows, slipping along the steel structures and dark corners of the building.
Mike tested the ladder first. Once he confirmed it was stable, they climbed quickly and silently.
Moments later, they slipped through the half-open vent and disappeared inside the factory.
...
The interior was dim.
The air smelled of cutting fluid, gunpowder, and sweat.
The rhythmic clanging of machinery thundered through the building, masking any small sounds they might make.
They had landed on a cluttered platform overlooking the workshop floor.
Crouching low, they carefully looked down.
What they saw shocked even them.
Below was a modified industrial workshop.
A crude but fully functioning production line.
Some workers stood around manual presses, re-priming recycled cartridge cases, filling them with propellant, and seating bullets.
Others operated small lathes, machining gun parts.
They looked like components for AR-style rifles—possibly barrels.
In another area, several workers carefully mixed powders and compressed them into solid blocks.
Mike sniffed the air and silently mouthed to Leah:
Explosives.
The workers all wore crude earplugs. Their faces were dull and expressionless as they worked.
Almost no one spoke.
Leah quickly counted.
Around a hundred workers.
Mostly men.
A dozen or so women.
And over twenty people wearing tattered National Guard uniforms.
Supervisors walked along the line with pistols on their belts.
Every single one wore a red scarf.
"Holy shit," Mike mouthed silently.
"They're actually making weapons."
Leah's expression darkened.
The scale.
The organization.
It was far beyond anything she expected.
This wasn't just a survivor gang.
It was a militarized group capable of sustaining war.
Leah scanned the entire floor.
Her eyes stopped on a small glass office at the far end of the workshop.
Inside sat a man who appeared to be a foreman or mid-level leader.
He smoked while writing notes in a notebook and occasionally spoke into a radio.
His red scarf was neatly tied.
An AK rifle rested on the desk beside him.
Leah whispered quietly.
"See the guy in that office?"
"We need him."
"He knows more than these workers."
Mike licked his lips, excitement flashing in his eyes.
"How?"
"If things get loud, the whole place will explode on us."
Leah studied the office area.
"Wait."
"He'll step out eventually."
"Or take a bathroom break."
They waited.
Darkness slowly fell outside.
Then suddenly—
The sound of a truck engine roared outside the factory.
It approached and stopped at the main gate.
Immediately the supervisors shouted across the workshop.
"Hurry up! Lorenzo's truck is here!"
"Load Batch A!"
"Move!"
Workers rushed to action.
Forklifts carried sealed wooden crates toward the loading area.
Leah and Mike exchanged a tense look.
Lorenzo's truck.
Was Lorenzo here?
Or just a pickup crew?
The main gate lifted slowly.
A military truck reinforced with steel plates and barbed wire backed into the loading bay.
Armed men wearing red scarves jumped out and began supervising the loading process.
Leah quietly activated her radio.
"External team. Do you copy?"
"Copy," Bossie replied softly.
"Military truck arrived for pickup. Plate number KT-7881. Reinforced armor."
"Track it."
"If Mike and I fail here, that truck might lead us to their main base."
"Understood," Carver replied.
"Leave it to us."
Inside the factory, the loading process moved quickly.
The office foreman stepped outside and spoke briefly with one of the truck leaders, handing him paperwork.
Leah and Mike held their breath.
But the man never separated from the group.
Too risky.
Soon the truck finished loading.
The foreman patted the truck leader on the shoulder and returned to his glass office.
The engine roared again.
The truck slowly drove out.
The main gate closed.
Fuck.
Leah cursed silently.
Their target was unreachable for now.
Then Bossie's voice came through the radio again.
"Attention. The truck didn't take the main road."
"It's heading southeast. Deeper into the industrial zone."
"We're tracking it on foot. The terrain's too open for the Unimog."
Tracking a truck on foot?
Nearly impossible.
Then Carver spoke again.
Firm.
Decisive.
"No."
"We're not following it."
"We're hitching a ride."