The shipyard loomed against the night sky, a maze of containers and abandoned machinery casting long shadows in the moonlight. The van stopped at a warehouse entrance, its rusted doors partially open.
"End of the line," the driver announced.
Diego exited first, weapon ready, scanning for threats. Sarah followed, helping Reynolds with the equipment while Antonio covered their rear. Robert moved with the practiced caution of someone long accustomed to danger.
Inside the warehouse, emergency lights cast an eerie blue glow over emptied shipping containers arranged in a rough circle. The space felt deliberate, prepared.
"Vincent?" Diego called, his voice echoing.
Movement from the shadows. Vincent emerged, looking worse than in the photo—blood crusted on his temple, arm held at an awkward angle. Behind him, three armed men maintained a respectful distance.
"Little brother," Vincent greeted, his usual smooth confidence diminished by pain. "You made it."
"No thanks to you," Diego replied cold
