The air was heavy with the metallic tang of oil and rust, the kind of scent that stuck in the back of your throat and made you swallow twice. Raven’s boots whispered against the dusty concrete as she followed Jaxon through the narrow, shadowed corridor of the old dockside warehouse.

Outside, the harbor was dead quiet. Inside, every sound felt amplified by the faint drip of water from a leaky pipe, the low hum of a single overhead bulb swaying in the draft.

Jaxon didn’t look back, but she ...