Hank
The warehouse is empty.
Not just empty—cleaned.
I stand in the center of the concrete floor, my flashlight cutting through the darkness, and there's nothing. No crates. No furniture. No signs of life. The walls are bare. The floor is swept clean. Even the smell is wrong—bleach and industrial cleaner instead of sweat and fear.
"Hank," Knox says from behind me, his voice tight. "There's nothing here."
"I can see that," I snap, harsher than I mean to.
Marcus moves along the perimeter, checking corners, looking for anything—a scrap of paper, a forgotten item, something that proves this was the right place.
But there's nothing.
"Maybe Sam got it wrong," Ray says quietly. "Maybe the intel—"
"She didn't get it wrong," I say, cutting him off. "Sam doesn't make mistakes like that. She
