Page 2

Something about this place is… off.

“You feel that?” I keep my voice low, a growl riding underneath the words.

“I feel a great many things. Which one are you referring to?”

I roll my eyes. “The fear, genius.” It’s rolling off the building in waves, thick enough to taste, sour on the back of my tongue. Wreck would lose his mind over a scent like this.

I want to break something.

Dead leaves crunch beneath my boots as we cut through the trees, Sentinel keeping pace at my right without talking.

The depot takes shape through the branches, rusted tin and rotting timber coming into view. I pull my Glock and drop it low against my thigh. Beside me, Sentinel draws his weapon, and we split without needing to call it. I head for the door while he cuts closer to the building, keeping beneath the broken windows as he works his way along the wall.

Glass grinds beneath his boot, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. He pauses at the first opening, his shoulder flattening against the rusted siding before he edges up enough to look inside. His gun follows his line of sight, sweeping whatever he can see through the dark.

Nothing.

Sentinel stays low beneath the next window, but the half pane still hanging crooked in the frame stops him. Years of grime have turned the glass almost black, so he catches one edge and eases it aside, wincing when it grinds softly against the frame.

My Glock comes up as he leans closer and searches the darkness beyond it while I cover his back, my hellhound restless as the seconds drag out.

Finally, two fingers lift beside his thigh.

Clear.

I lower the barrel an inch, and we keep moving. Then I take position beside the frame, gun tight against my chest, hellhound already pushing close beneath my skin. Heat crawls up my throat.

Sentinel closes in behind me until his cut brushes mine, one hand settling on my shoulder while his gun comes up beside my head, barrel aimed into the darkness beyond the door. His fingers squeeze once, and I shift my weight forward, bringing my Glock tight against my chest as heat starts building beneath my skin. My hellhound feels it too. The bastard crowds closer, claws threatening at my fingertips while a growl works its way up my throat.

Sentinel keeps his hand on my shoulder while we listen.

Something scrapes from inside the depot, faint enough I almost miss it.

My hellhound sure as shit didn’t.

The growl in my chest deepens, and Sentinel’s fingers tighten in answer, both of us waiting through another few seconds of silence until his grip clamps down hard.

That’s all I need.

My boot slams into the wood beside the lock and the whole frame fucking explodes inward, rotten timber spraying across the concrete as the door tears loose from its top hinge and crashes down hard enough to throw dust back into my face.

I’m through the opening while the impact is still echoing, Glock tracking with me as I cut left into the darkness. Sentinel comes through so close behind me that his back catches mine when he breaks the other way, and we separate from there, covering opposite sides of the room without needing to say a fucking word.

Dust drifts through the weak light spilling in behind us, turning slowly through the air while my eyes adjust. Broken crates line one wall, rusted shelving takes up another, and farther back, the darkness gets thick enough that I can’t make out much beyond vague shapes and the edge of another doorway.

So far, nothing has tried to kill us.

My hellhound seems personally offended by that. He prowls beneath my skin, claws pushing close enough to the surface that my fingertips ache while I sweep the Glock toward the back of the depot.

Whatever made that sound is still in here.

And the bastard knows we’re here too.

And that’s when the smell hits me.

Cages.

Rows of them.