The rain had turned the city into a slick, shimmering beast, its streets reflecting neon lights like a broken kaleidoscope. Daniel Carter hunched under the awning of a shuttered pawn shop, his coat soaked through, his notebook pressed against his chest to keep it dry. The docks loomed a block away, a sprawl of cranes and warehouses shrouded in mist. Warehouse 17 was his target, the cryptic email from his anonymous source burning in his mind: Check the docks. Warehouse 17. Midnight tomorrow. ...