The Charger’s engine growled low as it slid into position at the loading dock, tires squealing against the cracked pavement. Diego was behind the wheel, eyes scanning every shadow, the passenger door already open. Richard sat slumped in the backseat, pale and quiet, still trying to process the chaos he’d been pulled from.
A second vehicle rolled in right behind them — Jorge at the wheel, Claire stretched across the backseat, her shirt dark with blood, Luis in the passenger seat with one hand clamped over the wound, the other gripping a portable scanner.
The scanner squawked, Luis’ face tightening. “We’ve got trouble. Cops are en route — shots fired report, abandoned warehouse on Pier 9. They’re less than five minutes out.”
“Then we’ve got four to disappear,” Norma snapped, waving the ot
