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She wasn't here for the foot soldiers.
She needed someone who'd have answers.
Someone who, after all these years, might be able to tell her what her parents had been involved in more than a decade ago.
The anticipation of what lay ahead kept her senses razor-sharp.
She hopped the retaining wall and ducked under a partition of chain link fence that she'd severed the day before in preparation. She slid on her belly, moving between two security cameras with only a sliver of a blind spot.
Hours of recon. Hours on one side of a scope, watching every movement.
And now, like a perfectly choreographed dance, she hastened through the dark, moving fast and keeping to the shadows. She knew the office she was heading towards. A small, dank room in the back of the largest warehouse behind the walls.
That was where the man in the white coat could be found.
The man who issued the commands. The man who caused the other thugs to stand to attention, or to cease conversation.
The man in charge...
A lieutenant of the outfit? Something more?
She didn't know, but she was determined to find out.
She reached the base of the window to the small office space.
Rachel peered through the grimy glass, her eyes widening as she saw the man in the white coat sitting behind a cluttered desk, illuminated by the glow of a single desk lamp. He was much older than she had expected, with weathered features and a hardened gaze that indicated a lifetime of ruthless decisions.
Taking a deep breath, Rachel carefully picked the lock of the window, her hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. He didn't look over, the sounds muffled by the whisper of a fan sitting on his desk. As the latch gave way, she eased the window open just enough to slip inside.
The man was speaking into a phone, leaning back in a leather chair, his back to her, his eyes on a clock on the wall opposite his desk. He was getting agitated, switching from English to Spanish and back, shouting curses at the air.
The room was dimly lit, filled with the scent of stale cigarettes and mildew. Papers were scattered haphazardly across the desk, revealing glimpses of financial records and documents.
Keeping to the shadows, she crept closer to the man in the white coat. His back was turned to her, engrossed in studying a map spread out before him. She could hear his mutterings under his breath, snippets of conversations about shipments and territories.
"Routine checks," he muttered into his phone, unaware of the predator in his midst. His back was to her, a silhouette framed by the glow of a desk lamp.
Rachel edged closer, her shadow merging with the darkness.
He hung up, the phone clacking on the wooden surface. The lieutenant stretched, a casual motion full of openings. Now.
She swept in, a ghost borne of vengeance and need. Her hand—a whisper against his mouth—muffled any protest. The other arm locked around his neck, not to choke, but to secure a silent promise of restraint.
"Shh," she breathed, the sound more a caress than a warning. "Make a sound, and it gets worse."
The lieutenant's body tensed, his shock a palpable thing in the tight space between them. But fear had frozen his voice, the instinct to survive overtaking the urge to call out.
"Good boy," she praised, though her eyes were steel, unyielding. This was the dance she'd been taught, one step leading to another, each move planned and practiced.
She dragged him back, away from the light, away from the prying eyes of those who would thwart her. The shadows welcomed them, cloaking their departure in secrecy.
"Who are you?" His question was a strained whisper against her palm.
"Your reckoning," she replied, her tone devoid of emotion, but her heart beat a thunderous rhythm. Every second counted. Every breath measured.
The lieutenant stumbled as she steered him through a maze of crates and machinery. They were moving now, a fluid escape, her captive in tow. He didn't fight; the element of surprise was hers, and she wielded it deftly. The knife in her hand, pressed to the small of his back, also provided some motivation.
"Walk," she commanded, a terse whisper that brooked no argument.
