The air outside the warehouse was bone-dry, laced with the scent of dust, hot metal, and distant exhaust. It was barely after dawn, the sky bruised purple and orange. Sami stood across the street, hoodie drawn up, earbuds in, posture slouched like just another girl killing time.
She wasn’t shaking. Not this time.
This time she was ready.
Ace’s voice came through the earpiece, low and calm. “Still clear. Take it slow. You’ve got maybe six minutes before they do a rotation.”
“Copy,” Sami whispered. She didn’t look toward his voice, didn’t tip her head. She played invisible.
The warehouse was exactly what Reaper’s intel promised—big, nondescript, and just off enough to feel wrong. The paint was too fresh. The yard too clean. The guard near the dock too stiff and sober for a nobody job.
