We moved through the shadows of the building, navigating by the faint glow of the streetlights through the high, dirty windows.

I knew these passageways from my childhood, back when my father ran his shipping business from the waterfront.

Ten minutes later, the sounds of pursuit faded completely into the steady roar of the rain outside.

The docks smelled of salt, rotting wood, and diesel fuel.

The warehouse sat at the very end of Pier 17, its corrugated tin walls dark and streaked with rust.

I pulled a brass key from a waterproof plastic pouch inside my coat pocket.

The lock was stiff, but it turned with a heavy, metallic click.

Inside, the air was freezing and smelled of old canvas, grease, and stagnant water.

I slid the heavy wooden door shut behind us and pushed the iron bolt into place.

Alexander leaned against a stack of wooden crates, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

He was shivering violently, his wet hair plastered to his forehead in dark clumps.

“Are you alright?” I asked, my own teeth chattering.