Marcus came up at his shoulder. Strike teams folded into positions with silent efficiency. Reports crackled in short bursts: "Perimeter secured." "Snipers in place." "Thermal scans?"
An analyst frowned at his console. "Nothing."
Marcus looked up, incredulous. "Nothing?"
"No heat signatures," the analyst said.
Impossible. The site drew power; generators were active. Someone was inside. Yet the scanners returned nothing. Kade's jaw tightened. "Interference," he said.
Marcus nodded. The same tech that dampened the blood oath had been deployed here. Someone had prepared for Nightshade; thoroughly. Fortunately for them, not perfectly. The oath still tugged at him—like a compass needle swinging toward a wound.
"There," Kade said, pointing to the eastern block. To everyone else it was just another service door, another rusted seam in the façade. To him it was the place the trail wanted.
