We were inside the marina yard.

In the distance, the tall masts of yachts swayed in the dark, their rigging clinking against the aluminum poles.

The fog was so thick I could barely see ten feet in front of me.

“This way,” Adrian whispered, pointing toward a large, corrugated metal warehouse that stood near the main dock.

We crept along the side of the building, using the shadows of dry-docked boats for cover.

The smell of diesel fuel and wet paint was strong here.

Just ahead, the wooden dock of Slip 14 stretched out into the black water.

I could see the silhouette of a large luxury yacht moored at the end of the pier, its deck lights glowing faintly in the mist.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

The sudden movement against my leg made me jump.

I pulled it out, shielding the screen with my hand to hide the bright light.

It was a text from Sienna.

My eyes scanned the short, frantic message.

“Grant knows you’re here. He has guards on the perimeter. Don’t come to the dock.”