The warehouse loomed ahead, a relic of rusted iron and corrugated steel that seemed to bite into the darkening sky. Tate killed his bike engine, grace remained seated for a moment, her hands still clutching the leather of his jacket, her chest heaving as the adrenaline of the ride began to ebb.
"That was… terrifying," she breathed, her voice trembling. "And exhilarating."
Tate chuckled, a low sound that vibrated against her palms, before his expression hardened, shifting back into the mask of the man who ran this world. He slid off the machine and held a hand out, his demeanor all business.
They crossed the threshold into the warehouse, the interior smelling of stale grease, rubber, and the metallic tang of unwashed bodies. Dozens of men were scattered across the floor, leaning against
