Drake ducked behind the crate of wolfram as a bullet bit into it, and he swallowed back a curse. The shot wouldn’t have drawn any attention. There’d been a Maxim Silencer on the pistol’s barrel, something he didn’t have on his.

And attention was the last thing he wanted. Attention would mean more guards and possibly the move of this supply of metal. The undoing of all his weeks of searching. No, he wouldn’t go shooting at the man shooting at him.

Keeping his head down, he ran in a hunch along the crates. Another muffled shot sounded, another bullet bit into the floor an inch from his heel. The man must have come to the end of this aisle. Drake tossed himself over another stack of crates and rolled across it, dropping to his feet on the other side. “Barto! Get back here, you mutt!”

Footsteps sounded from the front. From his crouched position, Drake saw the shadow of the German freeze, then melt away as he sought cover.

The friendly guard must have come to the end of his corridor. “Is all well?”

Drake emerged from the rows of crates, putting himself in plain sight of the German, no doubt, but also of the guard. His gut told him that the agent wanted secrecy as much as he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have that silencer on the end of his barrel. He wouldn’t shoot him with anyone watching.

He hoped.

Pasting fond exasperation on his face, Drake jogged to the front. “Silly animal slid back out the rolling door. I’ll get him.” He moved into the stubby corridor, smiling despite the breath he held. Please, God. Please. A prayer not for his own safety at this point—the chap had had a clear shot of him as he’d moved and would have taken it already if that were his intent—but for the guard. He didn’t think the opposite number would attack him. If he were here to scope out the wolfram, too, then he wouldn’t want it moved any more than Drake did, and shooting a guard would pretty much guarantee that anything valuable in this warehouse would be shipped to another. But sometimes the Germans surprised him.

The guard chuckled and opened the front door for him, obviously blissful in his ignorance of the bullets that had just seared their way through his warehouse. “Better hurry. Best of luck!”

“Gracias!” Grateful he had an excuse to run, Drake kicked his speed from jog to sprint once he was on the street.

Even so, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Had the man gone out the same way he’d come in? Was he out here yet? Which direction would he go?