The sun was already high in the sky when Tyler's convoy rolled into the dusty yard surrounding the border warehouses.
Dust swirled behind their tires as they pulled in, the late morning heat already oppressive.
A handful of forklifts idled under the tin roof of a side garage, while several large trucks sat parked in a staggered line, engines off, their trailers ready to receive the carefully packed cargo.
Tyler stepped out of the SUV and adjusted the sleeves of his black shirt. The air smelled of hot metal, oil, and scorched wood.
He scanned the surroundings, eyes narrowing slightly. The warehouse itself was large, built with red brick and corrugated aluminum.
It had no signage, no identifying marks. Just what he wanted—anonymous and forgettable.
Inside, it was cooler but filled with the smell of machinery, wood crates, and industrial grease. Pale white lights buzzed faintly overhead.
