“And he won’t look back here?” Snell asked.
“He might not follow his post orders and even look in the back of my truck. Depends on how much the arthritis in his hip is bothering him.”
“Sounds like a crack guard service,” Jake said.
“You get what you pay for, which is barely above minimum wage for those guys.” Everett turned right at a stoplight, and Jake watched from between the seats as the plant grew large through the haloed exterior lights surrounding the building. A rumble of thunder sounded overhead. “There’s only a handful of them at this place who could find their ass with both hands and a flashlight. Now keep quiet. We’re here.”
Everett swung the truck right into the driveway of Blue Heron, the seats squeaking and groaning. They passed a bright sign with the company logo and instructions for drivers and visitors to check in with the guard. Ahead, a hundred-yard, blacktop driveway led to an opening in the perimeter fencing. A twelve-foot by twelve-foot shack painted a tacky shade of bright blue to match the Blue Heron logo housed a guard busy with paperwork. Long, counterbalanced arms adorned with reflective yellow tape blocked the entrance to the plant. As they drew closer, the guard grew younger, far from a guy who would have arthritis in his hip. The guard looked up from his paperwork as the truck’s headlights flooded the shack. Jake ducked behind Everett’s seat as the truck slowed.
“Uh oh, that ain’t Herschel,” Everett said.
“Who is it?”
“Wendell.”
“What kind of guy is he?” Jake asked.
“The kind of dipshit who wants you to call him Slash because he thinks it’s cool. You know those mall cops with an attitude because they couldn’t get on the police force? That’s this asshole.”
“Is he going to be a problem?” Jake asked.
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“I mean, I woulda bet my mortgage Herschel would wave me in without a hitch. With Slash here, it depends on how bored he is. Worse comes to worse, I’ll bribe him with my bottle of Johnny Walker.”
They stopped at the gate, the truck grunting and hissing. Jake and Snell pressed against the darkness of the cab as Everett buzzed the window. The hard steps of boots on asphalt approached. Jake peeked through the space between the cab and Everett’s seat. Slash raised the arm of the gate blocking their entrance and sidled to the driver’s door. A lazy, procedural error to be sure. Grant admittance before you know who is there probably wasn’t written into the security guard handbook.
The guard appeared in the huge, side mirror mounted on the driver’s side door. Pasted obsidian ropes of Slash’s little remaining hair clung for life atop his balding, egg-shaped head. He shifted his doughy, thirty-something frame and glanced up from his clipboard to regard Everett like a cockroach he wanted to smash.
“Evening, Slash,” Everett said.
“You’re late. The dock boys are waiting for you to pick up the last load so they can go home. They’re pissed.”
That wasn’t good. Jake pictured a group of denim-clad men sitting around bored on the loading dock, smoking and waiting. Would be impossible to sneak in around them.
“Bad wreck coming out of Topeka on I-70,” Everett offered.
“You bringing anything in?”
“Nope. Not today.”
Slash hitched up his pants, their progress hampered by his beer belly. “Let’s open up the back to double check.”
“Seriously? I’m already late and I told you it’s empty.”
“You got something to hide?” Slash’s eyebrow raised in a questioning slant. Jake wanted to climb out of the cab and punch this guy into tomorrow.
“No, just don’t want to climb outta the truck if I don’t have to. Knee hurts like a mother today.”
“You don’t have a choice if you want in my plant. Let’s go.”
“Goddamnit,” Everett grumbled, fumbling with his seatbelt and grunting as he maneuvered his frame out of the truck. “No fucking customer service in this world anymore.”
Jake and Snell waited in the dark, listening to the back latches of the trailer clanking and the creak of a door swinging open. Everett said something muffled, but heated. Slash said something back, and the trailer doors clanged shut. Everett made his way back to the cab followed by the boot heels of the guard. A minute later, their escort settled back in the driver’s seat.
“Dock four,” Slash said. “You got anything special in there for me?”
“I did,” Everett said.
“Well, what is it?”
Everett held up the bottle of Johnny Walker. “Shoulda thought of that before you made me haul my tired, old ass out of this truck.”
Everett shoved the truck into gear and advanced through the open gate past a dozen closed dock doors. Flashing red lights over each door lit up the numbers of the corresponding bays. Bay Four was toward the end of the building, well-lit by overhead spotlights. A chipped, tan door between docks three and four sported a sign reading “Driver’s Entrance.” At the corner of the building was another matching door with a burned-out bulb overhead. If they couldn’t sneak in the building through the dock, that door might be their best bet. Everett angled forward and backed to the dock door, handling the rig with the same skill a normal driver would a VW Bug.
“How are we going to get in?” Jake asked.
“Easy,” Everett said. “I’ll head in the driver’s door. Gotta complete some paperwork in the shipping office. When I’m done, I’ll make like I gotta take a piss and head to the bathroom which is back toward the end of the building. I’ll come out the door and you come in. Give me a few minutes.”
“How is the interior of the building laid out?” Jake asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve never been past the loading dock.”
“I know it,” Snell said. “Get us inside, and I’ll lead the way.”
Everett jotted a number on a white business card.
“My cell. Give me a call and let me know how it goes.”
Jake shook the old man’s hand. “Thanks, Everett. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Good luck, ma’am,” he said. “Hope your little girl ends up okay.”
“Thank you, Everett,” Snell said, eyes brimming. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“Let me read about your bust of these corrupt bastards on the news. That’s all the repayment I need.”
He winked and dropped out of the cab, disappearing through a door between docks three and four.
“There cameras on these docks?” Jake asked.
Snell swiveled around, pressing her elbows into the console. “Youngcraft 518s. Low resolution, panning application. We can time it right when it swings out toward the yard. I told Wyatt to install a stationary, hi-def, wide-angle camera, but he’s too much of a cheap skate.”
Jake winked. “What the hell do you know, anyway? You’re only with the FBI.”
“Smartass.”
“Well, let’s make him pay for his mistake.”
Snell craned over her shoulder. “Oh, I’m going to make him pay for every one of them.”
“Remind me to stay off your bad side.”
They gave Everett a few minutes to do his business before climbing out of the cab and darting around the corner of the building, hiding in the darkness. They blended well in the background, clad in jeans and black jackets. A narrow alley of gravel ran between the building and the wire fence bordering the property. A series of equal-spaced doors ran the long length of the building, each lit up by a wire-covered housing holding a lone bulb. In the distance, the red ember of a cigarette pulsed in the dark. It didn’t appear to be moving toward them, just an employee having a smoke break. The security camera at the building’s corner angled toward the trucks rather than the door. Drabek should fire his security people for this set up.
A minute later, the door opened, and Everett stuck his head out, his white hair glowing silver in the light. Jake and Snell hustled around the corn
er and up the four steel steps to the building. Everett held the door for them and headed down the stairs to his truck.
The door opened into a hallway. Chipped linoleum tile in a wide, checkerboard pattern of brown and tan. Restrooms on their right, another hallway leading toward the docks on their left where forklifts hummed and beeped. Fluorescent lights in thick, dusty fixtures buzzed overhead, casting a yellow glow. They headed along the hallway away from the docks. Their entrance was undetected until a thick-set Hispanic man with tattooed arms in rolled-up shirt sleeves emerged from another hallway and stopped a foot in front of them. His close-set eyes narrowed.
“Who the hell are you?”
Chapter Forty
Stanton veered off I-35 and wove his way through barren streets in what was once known as the Kansas City Stockyards. The one memorable fixture left in the area was Kemper Arena, a white architectural nightmare built in the early 1970s that used to host big-time concerts and NCAA Final Fours. The Stockyards was once a booming place where, at its peak, over 2.6 million head of the nation’s finest cattle would pass through. But that was a century ago, and the buildings crumbled all around. The only things that kept the area going were the east side businesses of haunted houses and the arts and craft shops that his girlfriend would drag him to on the first Fridays of the month.
The address given by his contact was a dilapidated, brick structure a half mile northwest of Kemper on the west side of the Stockyards. Stanton cruised, unconcerned with being seen. There was nobody around to take notice. The five-story monstrosity took up the entire block, its windows blackened and broken. He parked and jogged over, peering through a twelve-foot wide, rusted, iron gate to a courtyard spilling between the walls. He tested the gate. It screeched like a banshee but would slide if enough pressure was applied. The courtyard itself was asphalt covered with dark weeds springing through cracks. A solitary lamppost set in the courtyard’s center mass beat back shadows with a dim circle of light. That was the most likely place for the meeting. Nobody would venture into the buildings. Except himself and his rifle.
He returned to his car and drove another two blocks, old fabrications that screamed abandoned rising up on either side and parked in a darkened alley. After taking out his rifle and locking the car, Stanton headed back toward the target, hugging the darkness and on the lookout for approaching headlights. For a brief moment, he flashed back to a mission in Afghanistan, running along a shadowy street to get in position for cover support for an insert team on a high-profile target. Stanton killed two insurgents that day from four hundred yards out and severely wounded a third. He could still see the pink spray emanating from the back of their skulls.
His destination lay straight ahead at a T-junction in the road. The front door was boarded, the broken windows like jagged teeth. Weather-beaten two-by-four beams, nailed to the door frame, created an “X.” The door behind the barricade was already ajar with ample space for Stanton to weave under.
Inside, he extracted a penlight and swept the beam around the room. Debris littered the dust-covered, hardwood floors along with a collection of empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts. A couple of ancient desks and chairs shoved into one corner of what was once a lobby, and a ratty couch with torn cushions rested under one of the broken windows. A rat the size of an alley cat squeaked and pattered away as he prowled. A wide staircase with torn carpet wound up into the darkness, half its bannister poles missing. He slung the rifle case across his back and drew his Beretta, just in case.
The wooden stairs under the worn carpet appeared untrustworthy at best. Stanton made his way up, keeping his weight on the outer tread closest to the wall. Best support and least amount of noise. The second floor stood empty, save for a torn and worn sleeping bag and a stained pillow in one room. He continued to the third floor and inched across the creaky wooden floor, dodging the occasional hole that ripped into the darkness. He located a window overlooking the courtyard, dirt and grime thick enough he could have drawn a portrait on it. It took a minute, but he managed to force the window up its rusty tracks. The brisk night air sucked in. Kemper Arena lit up in the distance, and the traffic on I-35 scurried a mile away.
Stanton patrolled the length of the building, scoping the best vantage point of the courtyard and the quickest route to the meeting spot. His original window proved as good as any, so he returned, unzipped the rifle case, and checked his weapon. He found a couple of old chairs stacked on top of a dust-laden desk and carried one to the window. Sitting, he aimed the rifle at the courtyard. At this distance, he wouldn’t even require the scope. One bullet, one dead Jake Caldwell. He rested the rifle against his thighs and waited.
* * *
The Middle Eastern men rode in silence, watching the store fronts and neon-lit bars of downtown Kansas City. Their leader had hopes of a quick meeting and exit from this forsaken country. Alim knew what the contents of the briefcase could do but was curious how the leaders of his faction planned to use them.
Their driver, Husam, crossed a bridge, heading down a hill toward a landscape of shadowy buildings. Several minutes later, they cruised among them. Each edifice as desolate and abandoned as the next, a stark contrast to the bright and bustling downtown a little more than a mile behind them.
Husam slowed and pointed across the passenger side with a long, boney finger. “The courtyard.”
Through the gate, the courtyard appeared to be an expanse of blacktop, pinned between surrounding towers of brick and mortar. The light in the courtyard was dim from a center set lamppost, scuffs of midnight weeds growing at its base. Alim checked his watch. Ninety minutes until the meeting.
“Drive around the block,” Alim ordered.
Husam drove past the courtyard and turned right at the first intersection. The passengers of his vehicle leaned and twisted, checking out the surroundings from all potential angles. Alim noted another gate on the opposite side of the building. At least there was more than one way in and out.
“Jalal, you take the east,” Alim said. “Fareeq, you take the north. Find good vantage points to the courtyard. Any sign of trouble, you shoot anyone we do not know. Siddiq, you are with me.”
Jalal and Fareeq got out of the car, opened the back hatch and each took a green canvas bag before disappearing into the darkness.
“We have ninety minutes. Find us some place out of sight to wait.”
Chapter Forty-One
“Who the hell are you?” the tattooed Hispanic man asked again. His cadence slow, eyes dull and dim. His abrupt appearance in the hall brought the trio nose to nose. Jake and Snell hopped back. The man stood six foot and heavy, but nothing Jake couldn’t handle. He was a half-second from doing it when Snell flashed her badge before stuffing it back in her coat pocket.
“Agent Barbara Jones,” she said. “Immunization and Naturalization Service. This is Agent Hicks. You are familiar with the INS, no?”
The man’s gaze went from dull to wide-eyed in less than a second. He retreated a couple of steps. Snell advanced on him.
“Your name, sir?” Jake asked, grinning inwardly at Snell’s quick thinking.
The man said nothing, body tensed like he was ready to bolt.
“Relax, amigo,” she said. “We’re not here for you, at least not at the moment. How many people in the warehouse tonight?”
The man’s eyes darted toward the warehouse and peered down the hall. Jake stepped behind him, sandwiching the wary man between Snell and himself.
“How many?” Snell repeated. “Or you go away with the rest of them.”
“Four,” the man said.
“Is Wyatt Drabek here?” Jake asked.
“I think so,” the man stammered. “You want me to get him?”
“No,” Snell answered. “I have some advice for you. See that door? In five minutes, there will be a swarm of INS agents hitting the parking lot. If you don’t want a whole lot of hassle, I’d suggest you use the door and get your ass out of here. No alarms, no phone calls, no yelli
ng. Just hit the parking lot and don’t stop running. Comprende, amigo?”
Jake dug fingers into his arm. “And you breathe a word to the guard, and I’ll make it my personal mission to deport you to the worst Mexican hellhole I can find.”
Snell stepped to the side. The man split through the exit door and disappeared into the dark.
The corner of Jake’s mouth ticked up. “INS?”
“Seemed like a worthy gamble. Wyatt will do anything to keep his labor costs low.”
“Good call. I’m not betting on his silence with the guard, though. We’d better move. Which way?”
Snell led them up the hall. Half the fluorescent bulbs were burnt out, but Snell found her way through the twists and turns. The cheap linoleum tile disappeared around the last corner, and the hallway widened to a thirty-foot wide dim dock bay. Eight large, rollup doors were closed and silent, steel dock plates raised. A handful of yellow Crown forklifts rested in a corner hooked to battery chargers, red lights blinking. Fifty yards on the other end, two silhouetted doors lay side by side. The right door led to an office manned by a fat, balding man talking on a phone, his back turned while he wrote on a wipe board attached to the wall. The door to the left propped open, a staircase visible.
They dove into the shadows along the wall, away from the dock doors, and crept forward, ducking when the fat man in the office spun around and grabbed something off his desk. His beady eyes scanned the dock before turning back. Jake and Snell darted around pallets and hustled to the door leading to the stairs, its crisscrossed treads worn slick. Snell peered up the stairs and then at the other steps leading down into darkness.
“Which way?” Jake whispered.
“Not sure.”
“I thought you knew this place.”
A spasm of irritation crossed her face. “Give me a break. It’s been awhile. The lab is on a lower level, but I don’t know if we can get there from here.”
Jake shifted from foot to foot. They were conspicuous as hell on the landing. The fat man would nail them if he came out of the office.
Jake Caldwell Thrillers Page 45