866 "She Walked Into Court in Her Old Navy Uniform to Face Her Rich Parents—Only for the Judge to Reveal a Secret That Destroyed Their Entire Empire!"

The fog rolling off the Elizabeth River was thick enough to swallow the sodium streetlamps of the Portsmouth shipyard, turning the sprawling expanse of rusted cranes and decaying brick warehouses into a labyrinth of gray ghosts. I killed the headlights of my Ford pickup a quarter-mile back, letting the truck coast in neutral along the gravel shoulder until the tires crunched to a halt against a curb choked with dead weeds.

Knox wasn't just a pet; he was my battle buddy, trained to track, hold, and survive environments where humans failed. Leaving him in Victor’s hands wasn't an option.

I checked the magazine of the Sig Sauer P226 pistol tucked securely inside my holster, the familiar weight of the firearm anchoring my nerves. My reconstructed knee throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache as I stepped out of the truck and into the damp, salt-laced air, but I forced the pain down into the background, letting adrenaline take over.

The GPS coordinate pointed directly to Warehouse 4B—a cavernous, tin-roofed structure that had once stored naval supplies during the Cold War before being abandoned to rust and pigeons.

A single overhead bulb flickered above the sliding corrugated metal door, casting a sickly yellow pool of light onto the concrete apron.

I approached the entrance with slow, deliberate steps, keeping to the deep shadows along the exterior wall. The heavy metal door was cracked open about two feet, leaking the faint sound of a high-end stereo playing classical music against the hollow acoustics of the empty warehouse.

I pressed my back against the rusted siding beside the opening, tilted my head, and listened.

"...you shouldn't have brought the dog, Victor," a gravelly, unfamiliar voice echoed from inside the cavernous space. "The Commander isn't stupid. She knows a perimeter trap when she sees one."

"She’s a soldier, Marcus," Victor’s voice replied, closer than I expected. "And soldiers have a fatal flaw: they always come back for their unit."

I didn't wait to hear the rest.

With a sharp shove, I kicked the corrugated metal door inward, sending it sliding along its rusted track with a deafening screech of metal. I drew my sidearm, dropped into a low tactical stance, and swept the barrel across the interior of the warehouse in a fraction of a second.

The cavernous space was lit by halogen work lights strung across scaffolding. In the center of the room sat a black metal van with its rear doors wide open. Knox was sitting inside the cargo bay, looking alert and unharmed, though a heavy chain was looped loosely around his collar and tied to a floor anchor.

Standing beside the van were two men: Victor Vance, holding a glass of amber whiskey, and a heavily scarred, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket holding a remote detonator.

Victor didn't look surprised. He took a slow sip of his drink and smiled as the red laser sight of my pistol centered squarely on his chest.

"Welcome, Commander," Victor said smoothly, raising his glass in a mock toast. "We've been expecting you. But before you make any sudden moves, I suggest you look up at the catwalk behind you."

I froze.

From the rusted iron catwalk twenty feet above the concrete floor, a figure stepped out of the shadows, resting the barrel of a suppressed rifle against the railing—and pointing it directly down at the driver's seat of my truck parked outside.

"Drop your weapon, Evelyn," a familiar, raspy voice called down from above.

I slowly tilted my head upward, my breath catching in my throat as the dim light hit the face of the man holding the rifle.