CHAPTER FIVE
The office building centered the junkyard, little more than a garage with windows and a wooden door that didn't quite fit its frame. Two of the windows had compliance letters, warnings, advertisements—and everything in between—plastered all over the glass.
The door creaked as Ilse tapped tentatively against the frame. “Hello?” she called. “FBI...”
“Come in!” A voice called to her. A gruff, rasping voice. A voice accustomed to cigarettes and shouting at trespassers.
As she pushed into the small space, she spotted the man who belonged to the voice. He matched perfectly.
The old scrapyard employee was still wearing his blue jumpsuit with a nametag on front that read “Samuel.” His eyes were puffy, but it didn't look as if he'd been crying, more like his skin was loose from ol
