The number of people in the warehouse was easily a thousand or two, if not even more. Every breath Ryder took felt like inhaling a cocktail of cheap alcohol and stale cigarettes.
Bodies pressed against one another, creating a suffocating atmosphere with every breath. The warehouse—once used for storing imported goods that never made it past customs—now housed a different kind of contraband: violence for profit.
It was dominated mainly by gangsters. Men and women with hard eyes and harder knuckles, bearing scars all over as if their bodies were illustrating the intensity of their misdeeds with scars that spoke louder than any confession.
Although various other criminals were there, they weren't there for the fight but to carry out some more illegal activities that could help them bag a great deal of cash, mostly gambling.
