We hit the wet streets a moment later, the tires spraying sheets of dirty water against the brick walls of the alley.

The city was a blur of neon signs and gray mist.

Neither of us spoke.

Every second felt like an hour, the digital clock on the dashboard ticking down the twenty minutes Sinclair had given us.

The south docks were located at the edge of the district, where the river met the bay.

It was an area of abandoned shipping containers, rusted cranes, and rotting timber.

Lucian drove fast, ignoring the red lights, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white.

“The decryption keys,” I said, my voice barely audible over the rush of the wind against the windshield. “Do you actually have them?”

“I have them,” Lucian said, his eyes fixed on the road. “But Sinclair will not get them. Not alive.”

“He has Alina, Lucian.”

“I know who he has, Mara.”

He did not look back at me, but I saw the muscles in his neck tighten.

We turned onto a slick gravel road that led toward the water.