Elena's POV
The warehouse was quiet.
Too quiet.
It sat on the edge of the docks like a rusted secret, its corrugated roof bent in places, its windows caked with dust. I stood outside for a moment, the folder clutched in my hand, my breath fogging faintly in the morning air.
This was it.
Anna's intel had been right—Roth didn't meet unless he was confident. And today, he was confident enough to show his face.
I adjusted the wire beneath my jacket—discreet, almost weightless, but heavy with hope. Anna was close. Watching. Recording.
And if anything went wrong… I wasn't walking in blind.
I wasn't walking in afraid.
I stepped inside.
The air was stale, thick with old oil and dust. A single overhead bulb buzzed, casting long, warped shadows across the floor. Roth was already there, standing in front of a makeshift table, a glass of wine in hand like this was some twisted celebration.
"Elena," he said, smiling. "You came."
"I'm not here for pleasantries," I replied.
