*Rowan*
The docks stank of salt and secrets. Exactly how I liked it.
I stood beneath the rusted iron sign of Warehouse 17, Victor's last hidden nest. The wind whipped off the river, cold enough to sting skin, but my blood ran hotter than any furnace this afternoon.
Rafe stood to my right, Momo to my left. Two Lisbon hitters flanked the dock entrance, rifles slung casual but eyes sharp. Good men. They knew I wouldn't tolerate amateurs tonight.
Inside, rows of crates lined the damp concrete floor. They were marked as auto parts. Cute.
Rafe cracked one open with a crowbar. The smell of oil gave way to steel, rows of compact assault rifles wrapped in tar paper. He whistled low.
“Whole damn breakaway crew armed with these. Victor's trying to build himself a splinter city under our noses."
