“WAREHOUSE” in italiano

Rew ran out the warehouse at full speed, soldiers and thieves racing around him in a wave.

‘Look, it’s a warehouse on the outskirts of Slough at six in the morning.

The warehouse.

The soldiers had already removed loose crates and other combustibles from around the warehouse.

In moments, the entire warehouse was engulfed in brilliant, searing flame.

He rubbed his hand over his hair, feeling the tight stubble and the slick smoothness from the ash that had landed on him from the burning warehouse.

He could see light bleeding out from the crack beneath the door, but over the sounds of the soldiers storming into the warehouse and capturing the thieves, he couldn’t hear anything behind the barrier.

You’re going to get into that warehouse and take those photos, and when you come out of the warehouse you’ll be a tiny amount closer to being a proper private investigator.

There was a back entrance, but he favoured a rotting window on the landing that opened onto the sloping roof of the neighbouring warehouse.

There was a rickety building jammed between a chandlers and a wine warehouse down the street, narrow as the truth and tall as a lie.

Then playing at being detective, and the warehouse in Slough, next to a patch of scrubland, the people driving by.