“I’m not sure.” I park a distance away, behind a line of scraggly pines. Not perfect cover, but better than sitting in the open like a target. “Stay in the car,” I say.
Salem nods, but her eyes follow me like she might jump out the second I move.
I reach across and squeeze her hand once. “Lock the door after me.”
Her throat bobs. “Okay.”
I get out, cold biting my face. The air smells like wet concrete and old oil. I shut the door softly and crouch low, moving toward the warehouse with my shoulders tight. Every step echoes in my head. Not loud, but loud enough. I keep my path along the fence line, using shadow and angle. I listen for anything. A footstep. A cough. The scrape of a shoe on gravel. Nothing.
I reach the edge of the lot and stop. My eyes scan the lot. Still nothing. I move again, closer now. The warehouse looms like a dead thing. The loading dock has old pallets stacked haphazardly. A torn tarp flaps slightly. The wind makes it whisper. A smell hits me near the dock. It’s something chemical. Cleaning solution. Like someone tried to erase a presence.
My skin prickles. I edge closer and see fresh tire marks in the damp dirt near the dock. I glance back at the SUV. Salem is still inside, face pressed to the window, watching me like she’s trying not to panic. I lift a hand, palm down. Stay. Then I move toward the dock door. It’s locked. But the padlock looks new. Someone’s securing a place that’s supposed to be abandoned.
I crouch and study it. There’s no obvious tampering. I could easily force it open, but that would be suicide, right? Entering without backup would probably have Dean and Arrow wanting to murder me if I don’t get murdered first by whoever’s inside.
So I keep moving. Around the side. The ground is littered with trash, broken bottles, old cardboard. My boots crunch softly. I see a side door. It’s closed but the frame has scratch marks. Like it was pried open recently and shoved shut again.
I lean in and listen. Silence. I push lightly. It doesn’t budge. I move on, circling toward the back. And that’s when I see it. A carparked behind the warehouse, tucked awkwardly near a stand of trees like whoever left it wanted it hidden but didn’t have time to be clever.
It’s a mid-size sedan. Dark color. Dusty. Nothing fancy. But my instincts flare hard. Because it doesn’t belong here. And it’s too clean to be a junker. Too intact.
Salem sees me pause and suddenly her hands press to the glass. I motion again for her to stay. Then I approach the car slowly, eyes scanning around it. It’s empty. Obviously. The windows are slightly fogged from temperature shifts. The windshield has a small parking sticker. The plates are local.
I crouch and look at the driver’s side window. There are smears on the inside glass, like someone pressed a hand there. My stomach turns. I try the door handle. Locked.
I step back and look around again. Still nothing. This is so wrong. Everything about it is wrong. I pull my phone out and snap a quick photo of the plate. Then I retreat along the same path, moving faster now, pulse kicking.
I get back to the SUV and open the door.
Salem’s voice bursts out. “What did you find?”
“A car,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Back of the warehouse.”
Salem’s eyes widen. “Is someone here?”
“I didn’t see anyone,” I answer. “Doesn’t mean no one is.”
Her face tightens. “Should we leave?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Now.”
I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
Salem grips the edge of her seat. “What about the car?”
“I took the plate,” I say. “I’m calling Poe.”
Salem’s lips part, then she nods like she’s trying not to fall apart.
I pull out of the lot slow at first, then faster as soon as we hit the service road. I don’t like the way my body is buzzing. I don’t like that Salem’s breath is shallow. I don’t like that I have a bad feeling that this car is not just a clue. It’s a message.
I call Poe on speaker through the secure burner line.
He answers immediately. “If this is about your feelings again, I’m hanging up.”
Salem lets out a tiny sound that might be a laugh. It’s shaky, but it’s something.
“Plate check,” I say. “You near a terminal?”