About two hours later, the heavy iron loading door at the far end of the warehouse groans on its rusted hinges.
I keep my spine straight, my head back, and my breath slow and even.
Two sets of footfalls echo against the concrete floor. One set clearly belongs to Knox: it’s heavy, arrogant, his boots landing with deliberate weight. The other step is uneven, dragging, accompanied by the muffled, frantic gasps of someone being physically hauled through the dark.
"Get in here," Knox growls, his voice ringing off the metal rafters. He shoves a figure forward into the dim light of the hanging overhead bulb. “And shut the f**k up.”
The woman stumbles, catching herself on her hands and knees in the dirt. Her coat is torn at the shoulder, her hair disheveled, her chest heaving as she fights for
