They were already there.

I parked in a thicket of alder trees and moved on foot.

The mud squelched beneath my boots.

Through the trees, the silhouette of the old cannery emerged.

Three black SUVs were parked in a semi-circle near the rotting dock.

Men in dark tactical gear were moving toward the main entrance.

I saw a taller man in a tailored overcoat standing by the lead vehicle.

It was Sterling.

Beside him stood Eleanor Vance, her pale face illuminated by the dash light of the SUV.

She looked impatient, her gloved hands clasped tightly.

I reached the edge of the clearing, sinking into the shadow of a rusted shipping container.

My earpiece crackled twice.

“We are in position,” Marco’s voice whispered. “Waiting for your command.”

“Do not let them get back to the vehicles,” I murmured into the mic.

“Understood.”

I watched as Sterling gestured to his men.

Two of them kicked the double doors of the cannery open.

They rushed inside, flashlights cutting through the darkness.

I held my breath, waiting for the sound of the trap snapping shut.