Warehouse 13 Novels & Stories

" Does ten AM work for you?" "It's perfect." Marco drove me to Red Hook the next morning. "We've got three warehouses here," he said. "Twelve, fifteen, and seven." My pulse jumped. "What's in seven?" "Private storage. Russio's personal stuff. Nobody goes in there without his permission." "Not even Kayden?" "Especially not Kayden." Marco shrugged. "Above my pay grade. It's off limits." We parked outside Warehouse 12. "Take your time," Marco said. "I'll be out here making calls."

"I can provide counter-charms. They'll mask wolf signatures within a certain radius." "How certain?" I ask. "Ninety percent effective," Elena estimates. "Not perfect but better than nothing." "We'll take it," I decided. "Anything that improves our odds." We spend hours planning every detail. Positioning teams. Planning communication protocols. Identifying escape routes we need to block. "The warehouse has three entrances," Ethan explains, pointing to blueprints. "The north door is the main access. East and west doors are secondary, we cover all three." "What about windows?" Penelope asks.

“That’s the fucking point.” Another kick. A snap. His arm bent wrong. The pain barely registered on his face before the sharp buzz of my phone cut through the air. I wiped my hand on my jeans and answered without looking at the screen. “Warehouse thirteen’s been hit,” Luke said, voice tight. “Fire’s spreading. They bombed it, Enzo.” My spine straightened. “How bad?” “Real bad.” I looked down at Benny. His face was swollen. One of his eyes was already shut.

“An anonymous tip with no ID could be bait or a fucking goddamn trap, Alex.” Still, Alex didn’t turn his head or blink. “It matches chatter I’ve been tracking for weeks. Warehouse 19. Harbour Lane. Unmarked shipments. High rotation guards. If it’s not drugs or guns, it’s something bigger. Organised.” Jenna squinted at him, not quite buying into his words. “And miraculously, you just happened to get handed that exact address? Right when we hit a dead end?” “I’ve got sources,” he said coolly.

The digital clock on my monitor read 2:14 AM. The warehouse was dead quiet, save for the low, steady hum of the climate control units. I was sitting in the makeshift command center Jaxie had wired up in the back office, reviewing the final inventory manifests for the medical bay. Seventeen days left.

Dutch drove, hands steady on the wheel, and Ronan leaned forward from the back seat, resting his forearms on our headrests. "Three Creepers," Ronan said. "I can work with three." "You're not working with anything if your ribs have an opinion," Dutch said mildly. "My ribs and I have an understanding." The warehouse squatted at the edge of a rail yard, its loading doors rusted shut on the street side, a side entrance hanging open like a broken jaw. LUS painted the interior in faint gold: three shapes shuffling between the pallets, slow and aimless in the half-dark, and beyond them rows and rows of wrapped cases stacked to the ceiling.

It was the first hot meal we’d had since everything began. After we finished, I stopped him before he could start tearing into more boxes. "Don’t act rashly." I led them to a neatly stacked row of shelves. "The logistics area is divided into zones. This section handles polar expedition gear and outdoor brands. Search here." As expected, we quickly uncovered brand-new down jackets, snow boots, sleeping bags, and professional camping cookware with gas canisters. The wagyu problem was solved. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was an old neighborhood group chat that I’d forgotten to exit.

Mario asked, excitement flickering across his face. ​"There is a second warehouse," Chloe said, her eyes narrowing. "It’s an old cold-storage facility in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, disguised as a defunct meat-packing plant. It’s registered under a shell company called 'Apex Logistics.' And here’s the kicker: the Sovereign isn't the only ship. There are two high-speed transport vessels—the Valkyrie and the Wraith—that are trailing forty miles behind the main ship. They move without transponders. They dock at a private pier three miles north of the main terminal, exactly one hour after the Sovereign hits the port."

Arjun continued speaking ahead of them, explaining routine shipping operations. But Zevarion’s focus had shifted. “Take a picture,” he murmured under his breath. Elyra discreetly pulled out her phone and snapped a quick photo. They continued walking until they reached the largest warehouse building. Inside, rows of stacked crates filled the massive space. Arjun gestured proudly. “This is our primary storage facility. Most of Valeon Group’s overseas shipments pass through here.” Zevarion walked slowly between the rows. His eyes scanned everything. “Interesting,” he said calmly.

“For now, let’s look at the map of the watchtower at the Warfare Warehouse.” “This is located at the south of Corrin,” Gynith explains. “This is in the middle of the weaponry warehouse, which produces nearly all the weapons for the kingdom, especially the capital.” I look at the map as she flips to the next page, pointing at the circular outline of the watchtower, which is surrounded by eight big rectangles labeled as the warehouses. There are notes and names for each warehouse, as well as a path in the forest where Alistair and a man named Candor are supposed to be on standby.