“Two more blocks,” the driver announces.
I straighten and peer through the windshield. Ahead, the hulking silhouette of the target warehouse rises near the water, a long rectangle of shadow against the faint glow of the docks. A chain-link fence surrounds the lot, broken in places with sections bent inward where trucks have cut corners for years.
“Lights?” I ask.
“Minimal,” Misha answers, checking the tablet. “Security is a joke. One camera on the front door that might not even work.”
“Perfect,” I mutter. “We use the fence break on the east side. Park two streets back and go in on foot. I do not want them hearing engines.”
The driver nods. He kills the headlights and eases the SUV onto a side street. The other vehicles mirror the move. Engines cut one by one, leaving us in thick silence broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the faint rush of the nearby highway.
We spill out into the night. The cold bites into my cheeks and nose. I inhale it and let it sharpen my focus. Vega jumps down at my side, landing without a sound, his muscles taut, and nose lifted as he tests the air. His lips peel back just enough to show teeth.
“Smell something?” I murmur, my fingers curling briefly into the fur behind his ears.
He gives a low rumble in his chest, then fixes his gaze toward the direction of the warehouse, as if answering.
We move quickly. The team spreads out, dark shapes threading through darker alleys. Boots crunch lightly on gravel and broken glass. The fence looms up ahead, the gap in the east section just where Misha’s satellite image promised. Someone had peeled the chain link back long ago, leaving a ragged opening big enough for a man to step through.
Kolya goes first, slipping inside and scanning the lot with his rifle raised, the scope glinting faintly as it reflects a distant light. He lifts two fingers, signaling clear. One by one, we follow.
The ground inside is a mix of cracked asphalt and puddles that mirror slices of the warehouse walls. Rusted shipping containers sit haphazardly near the perimeter, stacked two high in some spots, left single and forgotten in others. A loading dock runsalong the front of the warehouse, a crumbling concrete lip stained with oil and old tire marks.
Vega stays tight to my leg until I signal him forward. He slips ahead, built for this, clearing corners and checking shadows, pausing once near a stack of pallets when something draws his attention.
Misha comes up behind me, his voice low against the whisper of the wind. “Two heat signatures inside, maybe three,” he reports, checking a small handheld device. “Near the back corner. If Ray is here, he is not alone.”
“Good.” My voice comes out quiet and rough. “Let him watch what happens when you touch what belongs to me.”
We approach the loading dock steps. Vega halts, his muscles tight and ears forward. He stares at the closed metal door, then gives a short, low growl that rolls through the quiet lot.
Kolya moves toward the service entrance on the side, while Albert and the others fan out to cover windows and potential exits. Misha peels off to circle to the rear, his gun drawn, his movements tight and quick.
I test the main loading door handle. Locked, as expected. I jerk my chin at one of the younger guards, who hurries forward with a slim case. He pops it open, selects a tool, and goes to work on the side entrance lock with sure hands.
While he works, I rest my palm on Vega’s flank. The dog’s breathing has changed, a little faster, his body humming with restrained energy. He does not whine or pace. He waits.
The lock clicks. The guard eases the handle down and looks at me.
I nod once. “Albert, with me. Kolya, take right. The rest hold the exterior and do not shoot each other.”
Kolya smirks for half a second, then melts into position along the wall.
I draw my pistol, press my shoulder to the doorframe, and meet Vega’s eye. “Guard,” I murmur.
He slips inside first, silent, a shadow with teeth. I follow.
The smell hits me first. Dust, old oil, stale air. The warehouse interior opens wide around us, rows of metal shelves running parallel to the long walls, some stacked with boxes, others empty. Fluorescent lights hang overhead, only a handful of them lit, spreading uneven pools of weak illumination and leaving plenty of dark pockets between.
Vega moves ahead in a low stalk, his paws making almost no sound on the concrete. His ears pivot, tracking every noise. His tail hangs low, not wagging. This is work.
To the left, Albert takes the edge, his gun up, and eyes scanning. Kolya slips between two shelving units on the right, covering that angle.
I hear voices before I see faces. A murmur from the back, distorted by distance and the echo of the space. Laughter follows, harsh and ugly, cutting through the hum of one dying light. Vega’s head snaps toward the sound, and a low growl vibrates through him.
We move closer, using the shelves as cover. My heart pushes hard against my ribs, not from fear but from the knowledge that every step brings me closer to either Hope or another dead end.
As we near the last row, a figure steps into view at the far end of the aisle. He has a rifle resting across his chest, his attention on something off to his right. He wears a jacket I recognize from a past surveillance photo. He’s one of Ray’s men.
