Jim looked around the place.
His breath misted in the cold air of the warehouse. The building was large, and high and forgotten. Drops of water leaked from some unseen leak in the ceiling.
Crates stacked one after the other, and other more filled the corners, with abandoned goods left to rot. Dust clung to them, cobwebs lined the edges, but inside those crates weren't useless relics, they were treasures. The kind men killed for. The kind men died for.
And tonight, he and his men were standing guard over them. The traitor had been killed but before he died, connections were made.
Dominic had given the order himself. He told them the hour the people would arrive, who they were, and exactly the amount of crates they'd carry. He asked Jim to stop them. To simply stop them, with no blood bath.
