At the end of the tunnel, a wooden door blocked our path.

Killian extinguished his flashlight.

The darkness was absolute now.

I could hear the steady breathing of the two men beside me.

Killian slowly turned the iron latch.

The door creaked open, revealing a cavernous, high-ceilinged space.

The air here smelled of raw jute, cedar crates, and wet cardboard.

We were inside the Vance Imports warehouse.

A single, dim light bulb flickered high above us in a glass-walled office.

The rest of the warehouse was a maze of towering crates stacked three stories high.

“Marcus?” Killian called out.

His voice was barely louder than the patter of the rain on the metal roof.

No one answered.

The silence was heavy, smelling faintly of something sweet.

My nose twitched.

It was a sharp, almond-like scent, cutting through the smell of damp wood.

“Aries,” I whispered, grabbing his sleeve.

“The smell.”

He inhaled deeply, his chest rising.

“The chemical,” he said.

Killian cleared the first row of crates, his weapon raised.

“Upstairs,” Killian said.

We moved toward the iron staircase that led to the office.