The Maracaibo sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the lake as David and Sarah Mills pulled up a block away from Isabella Montoya's warehouse. The air was thick with humidity, the smell of salt and rotting fish from the nearby docks mixing with the exhaust from passing trucks. Sarah killed the engine of the rental car, her laptop already open on her lap, fingers tapping quickly as she pulled up the satellite images again.
“We’re here,” she said, voice low and steady. “Warehouse is the one with the blue roof. Four guards outside, two inside according to the heat signatures. Cameras on the corners. I looped them five minutes ago. You’ve got a window before the system resets.”
David checked his pistol, suppressor screwed on tight. He had a knife in his boot, zip ties in his
