The cold air off the harbor smelled of diesel and rotting fish. I stood on the wet concrete inside Warehouse Four, wiping grease from my hands with a rag that was already filthy. Underneath the high iron rafters, the shadows were thick, broken only by the yellow glow of two halogen work lights mounted on tripods.My target lay on the steel examination table in front of me. His name was Miller, one of Julian Sterling's senior harbor logistics managers. A bullet was lodged two inches below his left clavicle, nicking the subclavian artery just enough to fill his chest cavity with dark blood. Any regular paramedic would have called for a transport unit five minutes ago.I did not need a transport unit.I focused my eyes, letting the familiar heat rise behind my retinas. The warehouse dropped away into gray outlines, and Miller's body lit up in sharp detail. His skin turned translucent, showing the bright red map of his arterial network, the pale blue lines of his veins, and the heavy, irr

The splattered oak door collapsed inward under the force of a heavy tactical boot. Splinters flew across the room, striking the copper surface of the green banker lamp on Gideon Pratt's desk.I pressed my back against the wall behind the door frame, breathing quietly through my mouth. The headache behind my eyes had receded to a dull throb, but my left eye still stung with every blink. I held the stolen nine millimeter handgun at chest height, two fingers rested against the trigger guard."Pratt!" a voice barked from the doorway. "Hands where I can see them!"Two men in black tactical uniforms surged into the loft, their boots heavy on the floorboards. Both carried short barreled shotguns, their flashlights cutting white ribbons through the dust and salt air.Pratt threw his hands into the air, stumbling back against his filing cabinets. "Wait! I am alone! What is this?""Shut up," the lead guard said, sweeping his light across the desk. It landed on the wet leather ledger and the sca

The heavy steel door slammed into the frame with a thud that vibrated through the concrete subfloor. I dropped the iron security bar into the wall brackets, locking the deadbolts into place just as a sharp volley of gunfire hammered against the outer steel plate.The hollow metallic clatter of bullets echoed down the concrete ramp outside, but the thick vault door did not budge.Inside, the air was freezing. Thick clouds of condensed white vapor rose from our mouths with every breath. Rows of tall stainless steel shelving stretched fifty yards into the dim blue light, holding sealed glass carboys and silver temperature controlled canisters.Gideon Pratt leaned against a row of steel shelving, his chest heaving, his face pale from terror and the sudden drop in temperature. "They are outside, Vance. They have the entrance blocked. We are locked in a deep freezer with one way out.""Then we find the manifest before they bring a cutting torch," I said.I moved down the central aisle, wipi

My hand froze around the frame of the nine millimeter pistol. The cold rain poured over my shoulders, soaking through my coat, but the heat in my chest turned to ice.Nia was climbing into the passenger seat of Sterling's lead SUV. She adjusted her camera strap, completely unaware that the man holding the door for her was the same philanthropist who had framed her brother six years ago."Nia," I whispered under my breath.Gideon Pratt grabbed my elbow from behind, his voice desperate. "Vance, do not move. There are four guards around that lead car. If you raise that gun, they will take her down in the crossfire.""Get back inside the corridor," I said, shoving Pratt behind the door frame. "Keep out of the light."Sterling stepped around the hood of the vehicle, his silver hair slicked back against his scalp by the storm. He opened the rear door, paused, and looked straight across fifty yards of open asphalt directly at the doorway where I stood.He did not raise his hand. He did not i

The steel access hatch opened with a silent three inch gap. Warm, sterile air rushed down into the damp vertical shaft, smelling heavily of isopropyl alcohol and hot circuit boards.I held my position on the upper rung of the iron ladder, letting my eyes adjust to the bright white fluorescent light above. The high pitched chime of automated fluid dispensers filled the space, accompanied by the steady clink of glass ampoules moving along a stainless steel conveyor.Through the crack, I saw the guard on the left. He wore a gray Foundation tactical vest, standing four feet from the hatch frame with a short submachine gun slung over his shoulder. His back was turned to me as he watched the conveyor belt.The second guard sat on a plastic folding chair near the freight elevator doors twenty yards away, checking his wrist watch.The man in the lab coat stood at the central workstation, filling a glass syringe from a pressurized metal canister stamped with the Foundation logo.I pushed the h