Capol and his crew took a left, then another left, weaving a pattern only three men in Eastgate still remembered. They ended at a squat brick building with boarded windows and a corrugated door tagged so many times the street artists had created a gallery by accident. Vince cut the engine of the first car and rolled up the door by hand. Inside: a storage space cloaked in dust and the smell of oil, a metal staircase hugging the wall up to a mezzanine.
They had bought this place ten years ago with money no one claimed, sweating through the framing themselves during a summer that had felt like a dare. Jerry had installed the deadbolts out of superstition more than safety; Julian had hardwired the walls for a surveillance system they never told anyone existed. It was a bolt-hole of last resor
