The pressure cooker finally cracked three days later.
I was in the safehouse with Ethan. The air was dry and cool. It smelled like old coffee, warm electronics, and the faint chemical smell of printer ink. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed. The sound was constant, low, in the back of my teeth.
The monitors were on. The drone surveillance footage of Han's compound filled the main screen. The image was grayscale and slightly grainy. The warehouse in the northern district looked big and square. The walls were concrete. The gates were steel, closed. The windows were covered with plywood.
On the roof, the guards were moving. Their thermal signatures were orange and yellow against the dark blue of the building. They walked in slow circles. One stopped and rubbed his face. Another shifted his weight. Their movements were tired.
