The rain was coming down in sheets by the time the three black SUVs cut their headlights and rolled to a silent stop outside the rusted gates of Pier 44.
Julian stepped out into the downpour. He had stripped off his suit jacket and tie. He wore a black tactical vest over his dress shirt, the heavy weight of a firearm pressing against his thigh. He felt a cold, familiar calm settle over him. It was a feeling he had buried five years ago, the night Maya found him bleeding in that hotel room.
Marcus appeared beside him, water streaming off his tactical helmet.
Thermal imaging shows six hostiles inside the main warehouse, Marcus reported, his voice low over the sound of the rain. They have her in a reinforced office on the second floor. Two guards at the door, two patrolling the catwalks, o
