The research facility looked like something designed by people who'd given up on humanity entirely.
I crouched behind a shipping container that probably remembered better decades, studying the compound through military-grade night vision Logan had "liberated" from someone who wasn't getting it back. Three hours since Sarah's rescue, and we'd tracked Kane's people to this concrete cancer south of Tacoma—razor wire, flood lights, architecture that whispered "terrible things happen here."
"Thermal shows thirty-seven heat signatures," Jake's voice crackled through my earpiece from his perch somewhere east. "Basement level, mostly."
"Guards?"
"Twelve external, rotating shifts. Unknown internal count. Here's the thing—those basement contacts? They're not moving like security."
Ice hit my gut. "Prisoners."
"Stationary heat sources. Been there a while, from the thermal patterns."
Logan finished assembling something that violated several international treaties. "Entry?"
