Inside, the vast space was filled with the low hum of old refrigeration units.

The air was freezing, turning our breath into white plumes that drifted in the dark.

“Stay behind me,” Declan whispered, drawing a heavy automatic pistol.

Roman drew his own weapon, his movements precise and completely silent.

We stepped into the shadows of the interior, navigating around rusted machinery.

Row after row of empty metal shelves stretched into the gloom.

In the center of the warehouse, a single work light illuminated a small wooden desk.

A man was standing there, his back to us, illuminated by the bare bulb.

He wore a beige trench coat, his shoulders hunched over a glowing tablet.

It was Richard.

He was muttering to himself, his fingers frantically tapping the screen.

“Where is the clearing code?” he muttered, his voice echoing in the empty space. “It should be here.”

I stepped out from behind Declan, my boots clicking sharply on the concrete.

Richard spun around, his face pale and eyes wide under the harsh light.

“Maeve?” he gasped, his eyes darting to the shadows behind me.