The old mill loomed against the bruised twilight sky, a skeletal silhouette against the dying light. It was a forgotten relic, its wooden bones groaning in the wind, a place where secrets had likely festered for decades. Rafe drove, his usual quiet efficiency heightened by the urgency of the mission. I sat beside him, my laptop open on my lap, a knot of anticipation and adrenaline tightening in my gut. Cain was following, a few miles behind, providing backup.
“Cain’s close,” Rafe said, his voice low, his eyes scanning the dark road ahead. “He’ll hold back until we signal. We go in first, get eyes on.”
“And what if ‘eyes on’ turns into ‘getting ourselves shot’?” I countered, my fingers already flying across the keyboard, accessing the mill’s schematics I’d found online, faint outlines of
