Trusting a traitor was a dangerous game, but we were fresh out of allies.
The derelict warehouse on Dock 7 was a skeleton of industry, its corrugated metal walls weeping rust, the air thick with the ghosts of salt and decay. Lysander’s blacked-out SUV slid to a silent halt in the shadows, a block away. The tension inside the vehicle was a live wire, humming with the promise of violence.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness. I was dressed in the dark, practical clothing Lysander had demanded, feeling like an impostor in my own skin. Yet, beside him, my hand clasped tightly in his, I felt a strange, grim certainty.
His thumb stroked the back of my hand, a silent, reassuring gesture that belied the cold focus on his face. He was a different man here,
