Thoughts racing, Seth drove through the lot, parked, and used the key to access the door. Again, he was almost surprised when it turned and the lock disengaged.
Swallowing hard, he stepped into the climate-controlled hallway. Surveillance cameras watched from every corner. He walked quickly, counting unit numbers, until he found it.
His heart jackhammered against his ribs. The air felt too quiet. Too empty.
Seth’s hand shook as he lifted the key to the lock.
In and out. Quick. Easy. Simple. Jet home.
With that reassurance tearing through his thoughts, he slid the key into the padlock.
Holy shit, it turned.
Mouth dry and nerves singing, Seth’s breath caught as the lock disengaged. Its metallic click echoed too loudly in the stillness. He yanked the padlock free and lifted the rolling door just enough to duck underneath.
The space was small. Maybe five by ten. Windowless. Empty—except for a single dusty leather zippered pouch sitting in the center of the concrete floor.
When Seth spotted it, he froze. His stomach coiled tight enough to strangle his lungs.
Fuck. After sixteen years, the evidence his father had left was still there.
His dad had been the last person to touch it.
With shaking hands, he crouched and reached for the pouch. The leather was cracked and stiff, the zipper reluctant. When he finally wrenched it open, his breath stuttered.
Inside, a thick binder dominated. Tucked to one side, a gun that looked like his dad’s old service piece. Cash, bound with rubber bands that had long since disintegrated. And an unmarked video tape, its plastic case yellowed with age.
The contents alone seemed deceptively innocuous. But people had been killed for what might be inside.
And if Nikolai was right, that Seth was being watched, then it was possible he’d just stepped into the shit. Deep.
Fuck, he couldn’t stay here. Every second he stayed in this unit he came a second closer to someone realizing where he was and what he’d found.
Before he left though, he had to know for sure what his dad had left…
Seth fought a cold sweat and positioned himself with his back to the wall, eyes on the open door, escape routes already mapped in his head. Then, heart hammering, he lifted the cover of the binder.
Just enough to see.
His father had been a cop, not someone who indulged in speculation or wild theories. He’d been far too by-the-book and steeped in facts to be paranoid. Whatever he’d left as his final message, he’d known beyond a shadow of a doubt to be true.
The binder creaked before it revealed the first page—a list of names. Typed. Clinical. Some familiar. But then…at the bottom, he saw one name circled, written in his father’s familiar handwriting.
A name that made his blood run cold.
A name his dad had identified as Specter.
He blinked incredulously.
Gene Hammond.
Seth’s world tilted. His stomach dropped so fast he thought he might puke.
Holy shit.
Shock pinged Seth’s system. He’d seen the truth, and his brain raced to catch up.
The past sixteen years—every memory, every conversation, every moment—snapped into sharp, horrifying focus.
