I backed away from the door, heart thudding in my throat. The man still hadn’t moved. Just stood there. Watching.

I yanked the flash drive from the briefcase and plugged it into my laptop. The folder auto-opened. No password. Just one video file. I hit play.

Grainy security footage filled the screen—airport tarmac, night vision. Then voices. A conversation between two men in suits, standing beside an unmarked plane.

One of them mentioned my name. Full name. Date of birth.

“Target is unaware. Transfer goes through tomorrow. We let him carry the drop point—clean exit.”

I slammed the lid shut. My palms were slick. My face flushed cold. I was being used. As a mule.

I grabbed the case, stuffed it with towels to muffle the tracker, and slipped out the back of the hotel into the alley. I didn’t stop moving. Not until sunrise. Not until I mailed the flash drive anonymously to a journalist I trusted.

I’ve been off the grid ever since. And I don’t touch briefcases.

The lesson?
Sometimes the most dangerous mistakes aren’t made in dark alleys—they’re made in plain sight. Be careful what you carry. You might be holding the truth someone would kill to bury.