Chapter 7 - The Maze of Iron and Rust
7
The interior of the abandoned warehouse was a labyrinth of shadows, rusted metal scaffolding, and towering stacks of decaying wooden crates. Dust motes danced erratically in the narrow beams of moonlight cutting through the shattered roof panels high above.
Behind me, the heavy crash of boots echoing against the concrete signaled that Victor Cruz’s men had breached the loading bay.
“Spread out! Find her and the old man!” Cruz’s voice barked through the cavernous space, cold and authoritative.
I ducked behind a massive industrial stamping machine, my chest heaving as I tried to control my breathing. Every instinct screamed at me to panic, but my corporate consulting background—honed by high-stakes negotiations and crises management—kept my mind sharp. Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not with Maisie waiting for me at home.
Footsteps crunched across the gravel and debris just a few rows away from my hiding spot.
“She went this way!” a gruff voice muttered.
I glanced around the shadowy floor. To my left, a rusted iron staircase led upward toward an elevated catwalk that spanned the entire length of the warehouse roof. It was risky—if they looked up, they would spot me instantly. But staying on the ground level meant walking straight into a dead end.
I rose from my crouch, darted across the open gap, and grabbed the cold iron railing of the staircase, climbing as fast and quietly as possible. My boots hit the metal grating of the catwalk with muffled thuds as I sprinted toward the far end of the structure.
Below me, a flashlight beam swept across the ground, illuminating the space I had just vacated.
“Hey! I see movement on the upper catwalk!”
A second set of footsteps slammed onto the lower stairs, rushing upward with terrifying speed.
I didn't look back. I pushed through a rusted service door at the end of the catwalk, stepping out onto the exterior roof of the warehouse. The cool desert wind whipped my hair across my face as I hurried across the corrugated tin surface.
To my left, a narrow maintenance ladder descended down the exterior wall toward a hidden alleyway behind the complex—an alleyway that led directly out to the secondary access road where I had parked my sedan.
I grabbed the rungs of the ladder and scrambled down as fast as my hands could manage, scraping my palms against the rusted iron, ignoring the sharp sting.
When my boots finally hit the soft dirt of the alley, I broke into a full sprint toward the shadows of the main road.
As I rounded the corner of the building, panting and adrenaline surging through my veins, I spotted my sedan parked quietly under the amber glow of the streetlamp. No one was near it.
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I fumbled in my jacket pocket, pulled out my electronic key fob, and hit the unlock button with a sharp click. The headlights flashed in response.
I threw myself into the driver’s seat, locked the doors instantly, and shoved the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the chassis. Without wasting a second, I threw the car into reverse, spun the wheel hard, and accelerated down the deserted access road, leaving the warehouse and Victor Cruz far behind in the rearview mirror.
