The road to the warehouse was a country lane, lined with poplar trees and broken fence posts. The morning mist clung to the ground, muffling their footsteps. Rangi led, the hunting rifle raised, his eyes scanning the treeline. Mira walked beside him, her new laptop—salvaged from an electronics store in Thames—open in her arms, showing the thermal map she had downloaded. “She’s still there,” Mira whispered. “But she’s not brooding.
