“He’ll want a clear lane to the exits and enough distance to feel clever.”
Mikel lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “That sounds about right.”
The old yard stretches in front of us, industrial and ugly in the way places like this always are, without even the dignity of pretending to be more than use and residue. Oil darkens the pavement in wide, irregular stains. Patches of dirty snow cling to the edges of the fencing and the shadows beneath the containers.
She was here.
That fact has been needling at me since I read the address. Maybe not in this building, or even in this section of the yard, but close enough that I should have seen it sooner. Close enough that I could have driven past without realizing I was within reach of her. The thought gathers behind my ribs.
Mikel reaches for the wheel, then stops and looks at me fully. “If he confirms she’s alive but not here, do not lose your temper,” he advises.
“I’m aware.”
“You can kill him after we have her.”
I turn toward him. “That sounds optimistic.”
“That sounds practical.”
There’s a reason Nikolai trusted him and a reason I do. Mikel knows when to press and when to shut up, and tonight he has chosen pressure because he knows exactly where my mind has been since I read the note. Rowan is alive. Rowan is pregnant. Ivan knows both. If he puts either truth in front of me and smiles, there will be a brief and very real temptation to put a bullet through his mouth before he finishes the sentence.
Mikel knows that too.
“I’m not walking in blind,” I tell him.
“That isn’t what concerns me.”
I open the door before he can add more. Cold air rushes in hard, filling the car with the raw smell of the yard now that there’s no glass between me and the place. My boots hit snow first, then broken pavement. The cold gets into my lungs in one cleanbreath and strips away the last trace of warmth from the drive over.
Mikel steps out on his side and circles around the hood. Up close, the night draws harder edges around everything. Fencing. Rails. Steel doors. Stacked containers. Even the air feels metallic.
He straightens the collar of his coat once. “You have ten minutes before I decide your definition of alone has expired,” he remarks.
“Nine.”
His expression changes by half a degree. “That helps.”
I look toward Warehouse 17 again. “If it starts before then, come in fast.”
“You won’t need to ask twice.”
I nod and start across the yard.
The walk takes longer than it should, partly because the ground is uneven and partly because a thin layer of snow and ice forces me to watch every step. Old freight yards like this distort distance at night. Floodlights create harsh circles of visibility while everything between them fades into heavy darkness.
Somewhere far off, a forklift engine rattles to life before dying again. A chain knocks lazily against a metal post. Wind slips between two warehouses and pushes a sheet of loose plastic fencing against the frame with a dry, repetitive slap that echoes through the empty spaces.
I keep my pace even and slow, careful not to let any tension show in the way I move. Ivan asked for me alone, which means he wants to watch the way I walk in, the way I carry my hands,and the places my eyes move first. Men like him build half their confidence out of small observations and then mistake that confidence for superiority.
The side door to Warehouse 17 is already open when I reach it. Not wide, just cracked open enough.
The security light above it buzzes faintly, throwing a harsh white glare over the concrete stoop and deepening the shadows inside the doorway. Rust stains the metal around the threshold, and a dark boot print near the jamb still looks fresh.
I pause for a moment and listen. There are quiet voices inside, and not many of them. I hear no sign of distress, no cry, no struggle, and no movement that suggests someone nearby is being held and trying not to be heard.
I step inside.
The warehouse interior opens around me in layers. The front section is larger than it looked from the yard, with a concrete floor scored by forklift tires and long rows of stacked crates arranged to create narrow lanes between them. Industrial lights burn overhead in selective rows, leaving broad sections of the ceiling in shadow while the lit areas below look almost staged. A metal staircase climbs along the far wall toward a second-level catwalk. Two loading doors sit closed to the left. A pallet jack rests near the middle aisle. There are men in the room, though fewer than I expected, and they occupy the edges in a way that confirms what I already knew on the walk in.
