A Narrow Escape

The air in the abandoned warehouse was thick with the scent of decay and something metallic, like old blood or rust. It clung to my clothes, my hair, my very skin. I’d thought this was a dead end, a place where the trail of clues dissolved into dust and cobwebs, but I was wrong. So spectacularly wrong. The rhythmic clang of heavy boots on concrete, echoing from the far end of the cavernous space, told me that. They weren’t just looking for me; they’d found me.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a drumbeat of pure adrenaline. This wasn’t the thrill of a daring discovery; this was the cold, sharp fear of being hunted. I’d been so focused on the faded ink of the map, on the tantalizing promise of what lay beyond, that I’d let my guard down. A rookie mistake, and one I was about to pay for dearly.

I scrambled behind a stack of decaying crates, the rough wood snagging at my jacket. My breath hitched as the footsteps grew louder, closer. Three, maybe four of them. Big, solid sounds that spoke of purpose and a distinct lack of mercy. Silas Blackwood’s men, no doubt. The thought sent a fresh wave of dread through me. I’d seen the cold glint in Blackwood’s eyes, the effortless way he commanded respect, or perhaps fear, from his subordinates. He wasn’t someone to be trifled with.