Hansen's tires screamed against the grit of the riverfront, the sound echoing hollowly off the corrugated metal of the surrounding docks. By the time he killed the engine, the air was already thick with it, the heavy, unmistakable iron-scent of a fresh slaughter. It was a smell he knew too well, one that usually meant his team would be spending the next six hours filling out paperwork and calling the coroner.
"Stay sharp," he barked into his comms, his voice tight. "Perimeter check. If anything's still breathing, I want it pinned."
He stepped out of the vehicle, his boots crunching on the glass of a shattered streetlight. His tactical team, seasoned guys, men who had seen the worst of the shifter underworld, were moving toward the warehouse entrance with a strange, hesitant caution. Usually, they were the ones breaking down doors. Tonight, it looked like the door had already been handled. Torn off its hinges, actually.
