The skeletal shapes of old warehouses rose out of the dark, their metal roofs glistening under the streetlights.

Lucian cut the headlights a hundred yards before we reached the gate.

We rolled to a stop in the shadow of a stack of rusted shipping crates.

The engine died, leaving only the sound of the rain drumming on the metal roof.

“Warehouse four is at the end of the pier,” Lucian said, reaching under his seat.

He pulled out a sleek, matte-black handgun and checked the magazine with a sharp click.

He handed me a small, heavy silver flash drive from his pocket.

“Keep this in your pocket,” he whispered. “If things go wrong, you run. Do you understand me?”

“I am not leaving Alina,” I said.

Lucian looked back at me, his dark eyes fierce.

“You run, Mara. Bishop will go with you.”

I did not argue, but I slipped the cold metal drive into my coat pocket anyway.

We got out of the car, closing the doors softly.

The rain hit me like needles, freezing my face and neck.