Later that night, a warehouse near the downtown edge lit up with movement.
A police cruiser rolled through the open gate, tires crunching over gravel, its lights off. The compound was busy—men in blue overalls moved between stacks of crates, forklifts idling under corrugated shelters.
At a glance, it looked like late-night loading.
A second look ruined that illusion.
Too many hands rested near waistlines. Too many bulges under fabric. Metal flashed where it shouldn't.
The cruiser drove all the way to the back, slowing near one of the shelters where a small group waited. Most wore the same overalls. One didn't.
He stood apart, broad arms bare, white tank top stretched over a thick chest. Tattoos wrapped his biceps and crept up his neck. His head was shaved clean, skin catching the floodlights. A cigarette hung from his mouth, ember bright as he inhaled.
The cruiser stopped.
