“If Gregory finds out we’re here, he will destroy everything,” she whispered.

“He won’t find out,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road behind us.

The keypad beeped once, and a solid green light appeared.

The heavy steel door clicked and swung open an inch, releasing a hiss of pressurized, cool air.

The interior smelled of machine oil, old paper, and damp concrete.

I pulled my flashlight from my belt and clicked it on, keeping the beam pointed at the floor.

“Keep the light low,” Vance muttered, stepping inside with his hand near his holster.

The concrete floor was swept clean, but there were dark grease stains near the center of the room.

Stack after stack of wooden crates rose toward the high ceiling, each one stenciled with military identification numbers.

I walked over to the nearest stack and brushed a layer of fine dust off the stenciled lettering.

“These are marked as Class IX scrap,” I said, reading the code. “Obsolete truck axles.”

Vance reached into his pocket, pulled out a small crowbar, and wedged it under the lid of the top crate.