I reach down and check my boot out of habit, the quiet reassurance of weight exactly where my security team insists it should be.
I step one leg out onto the ground, pausing a moment more to make a note of everything around me. Somewhere in the distance, a streetlight buzzes and flickers, the only hint of life.
Other than that almost imperceptible drone, there’s nothing. Not even an animal scurrying or someone rooting through trash cans. It’s a ghost town, a place meant for secrets.
The warehouse the caller mentioned sits about a hundred and fifty feet ahead, squat and heavy against the night. Its outline is uneven, worn down by time and neglect, windows punched out like missing teeth. Nothing about it belongs among the lit streets a block over.
Whoever dragged me out here better have a damn good reason.
I slip my Sig Sauer from its holster in my boot and tuck it into the back of my waistband just in case. The cold metal presses against my skin as I start heading toward the warehouse.
A thin thread of yellow light leaks weakly from a cracked window along the building’s front, like it doesn’t quite want to exist. It doesn’t touch the ground so much as hover there, failing to give anything away.
As I edge closer, it becomes clear the source isn’t near the entrance. Whatever’s lit is buried deeper inside, so I move to the back of the building on the riverside.
I walk across overgrown weeds seeping out of cracks in the cement and climbing the unkempt masonry walls.
I push the eeriness aside and brush off the prickling at the back of my neck. As I round the corner of the building, the wall gives way and a low, muffled sound slips through the air. It’s barely there, more breath than voice.
I stop short, my chest tightening before I can place why. Something about it is familiar.
I stay still for a beat longer than necessary, then check the weight at my back again, more out of instinct than necessity. I know it’s there and cocked and ready.
The night is quiet enough that the faint crunch of gravel under my next step is amplified. I move toward the noise slowly and deliberately, careful not to announce my arrival until I know what I’m walking into.
Cold air fills my lungs, carrying the smell of oil and rust. And underneath it, the unmistakable tang of fresh blood permeates the night.
I don’t need to see anything yet to know what’s happening. Someone is being worked over. The only question is who.
A weak spill of light seeps out ahead, leaking through a broken window near the back of the warehouse. This one is brighter than the front hint of light. This is where it’s happening. Against the dark, it stands out like a beacon.
As I close the distance, the sounds sharpen. I can make out strained breaths, a wet cough, and a raw, scraping noise.
My hand curls, ready. This is the part where I stop asking why and start dealing with what’s in front of me.
I reach the window and stop just short of it. Another sound slips out just as I get there. It’s low and guttural, and thick with pain. I freeze and listen.
Then a sharp crack echoes inside the building, followed by a strangled gasp that makes my jaw tighten.
I press my back to the concrete wall, keeping myself out of sight. Old lessons surface without effort. Risk briefings, security protocols, the kind of situational awareness that comes with growing up around men who understood how fast control can slip.
I lean my head in just enough to see the room.
Inside, the space is lit by a single overhead bulb swinging from a frayed wire. The light is dirty and uneven, casting long shadows across the cement floor.
Three men stand in a loose circle, their backs to the window. Between them, a fourth figure is strapped to a chair. He’s mostly shielded by the men, so I can only make out that he’s barely alive.
He’s slumped forward with his head hanging down. Blood drips steadily from his body, dark against the pale, dirty concrete beneath him.
My focus narrows.
What was once a white button-down shirt is now torn open, soaked through, and heavy with a deep crimson hue. The fabric clings where it shouldn’t, stuck with blood.
One of the men shifts, lifting his arm. A wire flashes, settles at the man’s throat, then snaps tight as it’s wrenched backward, the chair scraping as his body jerks against the pull.
The sound that follows isn’t a scream so much as a broken noise torn out of a throat that’s already had too much taken from it. The man in the chair jerks weakly against his restraints.
Inside the warehouse, the men move with unhurried precision. One steps in, strikes, then steps back. Another takes his place.
