The rain hadn’t stopped.
Rain hammered the strip club windows like fists, as if the storm itself was trying to claw its way inside.
Lightning split the dark in a blinding flash, lighting up the wreckage, blood smeared across the stage, overturned chairs, dancers sprawled like discarded playing cards.
Selene burst through the emergency exit, gun in hand, eyes hard.
Vincent was already there, backlit by the red glow of warning lights, his coat soaked, rifle in his arms.
“South entrance breached,” he growled. “Two down already. Looks like cops, but they’re not marked.”
Selene narrowed her eyes. “Seraphim’s play.”
They moved like ghosts, boots hitting the wet floor with synchronized rhythm. Selene’s mind wasn’t on the gunfire.
It was on the shipment.
The one she’d just restarted.
The
