The inside of the warehouse was cavernous. Corbeau’s footsteps echoed softly in the darkness. He was the only one of the group not wearing soft-soled footgear. Pools of light fought back the dark at random intervals, revealing stacks of crates, pyramids of cylinders, and huge cargo containers. During the day the area would have been a hive of activity. Night made it a sepulcher. With the door to the alley closed, the street sounds had vanished, leaving only Corbeau’s soft footfalls and the lap of water against the concrete of the enclosed dock area to break the silence.