Ezzy killed the siren three blocks from the warehouse. The sedan's headlights painted the industrial district in long yellow streaks, illuminating the SACU patrol vans already clustered around the riverfront building. A faint shimmer hung in the air—the veil, barely visible even to Tommy's eyes.
"How bad?" he asked.
"Jade doesn't call mid-mission unless he's in trouble." Ezzy's drowsy mask was gone. Her grip on the wheel was tight. "So probably bad."
They badged through the perimeter. The warehouse interior was a disaster. Concrete craters. Shattered glass. A hole in the north wall wide enough to drive a truck through. The air smelled of formaldehyde, blood, and decayed flesh that had been sitting in jars too long.
