The tires crunched over wet gravel as we approached the side gate.

The hooded man stepped back into the shadows of the guard shack, leaving the gate swinging open.

I drove through, the metal bars scraping lightly against the passenger-side mirror.

The compound was dark, illuminated only by the occasional amber security light swinging in the wind.

We parked behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.

I cut the headlights and the engine.

The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by the steady drum of rain on the roof.

“If Marcus is inside, it’s a trap,” Victor said.

“Marcus wants Tony dead just as much as we do,” I replied.

I checked the chamber of my Glock, the cold metal reassuring in my grip.

I was an undercover federal agent, but tonight, the badge in my pocket felt thin and useless.

If I wanted the syndicate’s ledger, I had to play the hand I was dealt.

We got out of the car, keeping our heads down against the wind.

The cold rain soaked through my jacket in seconds, chilling my skin.