The heavy steel doors of the loading dock slammed shut behind Ryan, instantly muting the chaotic roar of the retail floor.
The air in the concrete staging area was freezing, smelling of diesel exhaust, wet cardboard, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. The massive rolling corrugated doors at the back of the dock were slightly raised, leaving a two-foot gap that let the biting November wind howl into the space.
Hayes stood near the gap, flanked by three PMC operators. Their weapons weren't drawn, but they were positioned with lethal, coiled tension. They formed a tactical wedge between the gap in the door and Ryan.
"Federal plates," Hayes grunted, not looking away from the sliver of the alleyway visible beneath the door. "But they aren't flashing badges. They're standing in the rain, waiting."
Ryan didn't slow his stride. "Open it."
