With every step, I wondered what I might find there.

Could it really be just a garage? Nothing more than a place where people got their oil changed, tires rotated, and washer fluid filled?

That seemed unlikely, though I wouldn’t know until I checked it out.

Something about it screamed at the back of my mind.

It was insane that Lenny had vanished from his construction job, only to end up four hours south in a garage owned by the same people who owned the construction company.

No. There had to be a reason they wanted Lenny to work there.

The garage was located near a strip mall.

On one side of the massive parking lot was a line of typical shops—a nail salon, a shoe store, a tax processing company, a mom-and-pop sandwich shop, and so on.

The garage was across the road. It was larger than I’d anticipated.

Seven huge bay doors, all closed and locked.

On the right side, a combination office, showroom, and waiting area stood, accessible through nothing but a single glass door.

The back of the building was nearly twice as big as the rest of the shop.

Padding through the shadows, I kept a lookout for anyone nearby. The businesses in the strip mall were all closed and locked up, their lights out. Any shadowy figures that might want to sneak up on me had plenty of places to hide. Undeterred, I made my way to the rear of the building.

For forty long minutes, I sat on my haunches in the shadows, watching.

There was no movement, no noise, not a sign of anyone watching or lying in wait.

In fact, the only sound or movement came from the steady rumble and thrum of traffic from the road.

The headlights did nothing to illuminate the garage or strip mall, either, since a large, grassy berm blocked everything from the light of the cars.

Finally sure that it was safe, I shifted to my human form and strode toward the garage’s back door.

As I went, I swiveled my head back and forth, still checking for danger or watchful eyes.

A strange anxiety had taken hold, but I couldn’t pinpoint the reason for it.

Could it simply be that I was far away from Cameron?

Was it my worry that this would all be one big dead end?

Whatever it was, I did my best to tamp those thoughts down and focus as I approached the door.

The rear entrance was a heavy steel door with a small keypad mounted on the right. Staring at it, I thought back on something Ollie had told me years ago in a similar situation.

People like to think they’re being safe with passwords and codes, but in reality, people are lazy. Lazy, and worried they’ll forget. Nine times out of ten, it’s ridiculously easy to guess. Those are the same people who will act horrified and confused when their stuff gets broken into .

Taking those words to heart, I tried the first few options that came to mind: 0000, 1111, 1234.

Nothing. I glared at the keypad, wondering if the place had an alarm system.

Maybe I could break a window and enter without anyone being signaled.

I tossed that idea aside almost as soon as it entered my mind.

No, that was too dangerous. Rookie shit.

Inspecting the keypad closer, I saw a few of the buttons had more wear on them.

The numbers were set in four rows of three buttons.

The top level being 1, 2, and 3. The lowest level being *, 0, and # .

After a few moments, I decided to try the next logical combo based on the worn buttons: 1235.

The light above the keypad flashed green, and a small metallic click sounded as the door swung open an inch.

“Holy shit,” I muttered, excited that I’d been successful and shocked that Ollie had been right about how dumb people could be.

Inching into the building, I left the door slightly ajar so I’d have a quick exit in case something went wrong.

The scents of motor oil, brake fluid, the strangely spoiled smell of antifreeze, and rubber assaulted my nose.

It made it impossible to use my sense of smell to search for anything.

I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Making my way across the showroom, I found a door that led to a small office.

A desktop computer sat on the table. Bingo.

Sitting down, I booted the machine up and waited for the loading screen.

To my relief, it didn’t need a password.

Digging in, I skimmed the programs and files.

Several had names attached to them. None were Lenny’s, though.

Taking a shot in the dark, I clicked a file, pulling up a few dozen spreadsheets and invoices.

Nothing. The next file contained what looked like hundreds of serial numbers for parts.

A few quick internet searches of the numbers showed me I was correct.

Car parts, cleaning supplies, and random shit a garage would use day to day.

A few more clicks revealed the exact same thing. Boring, typical things that anyone would expect of a business like this. My irritation amped up. When I opened my dozenth file, all it showed was a delivery a week prior for a bunch of gas canisters. Five pallets of them.

Fucking riveting shit . I glanced out the office window.

The gas canisters were visible at the far end of the garage, each one five feet tall and bright yellow.

I frowned as I stared at them. Glancing back at the computer screen, I reread the delivery invoice, then looked back at the canisters.

The invoice said five pallets had been delivered, yet through the window, I could definitely see six pallets.

I’d never gone to college, but I sure as shit knew six was not the same as five.

I pushed away from the desk and walked toward the window, eyeing the tall cylinders.

There was a very good possibility that this was some gas they used frequently and had ordered more when they’d gotten down to their last pallet.

That made logical sense, but some strange suspicion tickled the back of my mind.

With no other leads, I headed out to take a look, if only to appease my curiosity.

My boots clunked against the steel-grated floor as I walked toward the pallets.

The closer I got, the stranger the canisters looked.

From a distance, they all looked identical, yet upon closer inspection, the sixth pallet had canisters with weird-looking tops.

The upper portion seemed to be made from a different material.

A shipping manifest lay on a clipboard beside them, but the language was something that may have been Russian.

Cyrillic, perhaps. Either way, I couldn’t read it.

Eyeing the container again, I noticed that though the whole canister should have been steel, curving to a bullet-like top and ending with a brass valve and knob, these were different.

Instead of a solid piece of steel, these looked like the metal stopped right before the top curve, and a thin seam ran around the cylinder.

The hair on my arms and the back of my neck rose. I might have found something.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I tried twisting the top off one. The entire top portion, valve and all, spun freely beneath my hand.

“Son of a bitch,” I whispered, quickly unscrewing the entire top. I was struck with a bitter chemical reek that made my eyes water. The canister wasn’t filled with propane, acetylene, or helium. Instead, it was filled with small, white, glass-like crystals. Meth.

My eyes widened as I took in the sheer volume of the drug inside the canister.

It was five feet tall and nearly a foot wide.

A few months ago, I’d read a news report that said a single gram of this stuff had a street price of thirty dollars.

There were probably hundreds of pounds of it in all the canisters on this pallet.

I was staring at literally millions of dollars in drugs.

“Holy fucking shit,” I muttered.

My wonder and surprise were supplanted by something else.

Confusion. I’d never been this close to these kinds of drugs, so I wasn’t entirely sure what they were supposed to smell like, but something about it smelled…

odd, for want of a better word. I pulled my phone out and took a quick picture of the drugs as well as the Russian shipping manifest. Tucking my phone away, I leaned down to take a better smell, lowering my head.

The explosive crack of a gunshot burst through the garage the instant I leaned forward.

A bullet slammed into the wall above me, sending a burst of plaster and wood spraying across my face.

It struck where my head had been a few seconds before.

Unable to fully process what happened, I leapt backward, tucking and rolling.

I fell behind a stack of tires as a second gunshot fired, filling the dark garage with a bright flash of light and the tang of burnt gunpowder.

Shifting, I bolted for the door I’d left open.

Another gunshot sounded, and a high-pitched ping made me flinch as the bullet slammed into the steel floor only a few inches to my right.

To my horror, I saw that the rear door now stood fully latched and closed.

The fucker had trapped me inside. I’d never noticed him.

He’d been too quiet, and the scents of the garage had masked his approach.

Goddamn it, I’d fucked up.

The sound of running feet spurred me to move even faster.

He was coming for me. Without looking back or even bothering to heed the danger, I leapt toward the window beside the door, praying it wasn’t laminated safety glass.

Closing my eyes tight, I crashed through the glass.

In a miracle I barely registered, none of the shards sliced me as I went.