by T C Miller
“Nice throw. . .Glad we’re on the same team.” Bart patted him on the shoulder.
“Part of the job, sir.” There was no emotion in his voice.
“Serious training, no doubt. Let’s move on. . .see what we’re facing.”
Jake led the way to make sure that none of the guard’s coworkers were waiting in ambush. The larger room was clear, and he motioned for his teammate to follow—which he did, slamming the door shut with a resounding clang.
“They’ll think he’s doing his job,” Bart whispered.
Jake nodded from the center of a room that was half the size of a basketball court. Wooden shipping crates and cardboard boxes covered most of the floor. “Lot of stuff must’ve moved through here over the years.”
“Intel said smuggling booze during prohibition was big bucks. . .the building was good cover.”
“And the Russians are taking full advantage of it.”
“Sure are. . .So what’s behind door number two?” He pointed to the opposite wall and the only other exit from the crypt-like, brick-walled room. Surprisingly the hinges were well-oiled and opened silently.
Jake pulled a telescoping mirror out of his shirt pocket. Similar to what dentists use, it allowed him to see around corners without exposing himself to direct fire. He crouched down, stretched the mirror out, and peered around the door frame.
A hallway led only to the right and terminated at a door that had a window in the top half. It revealed a cavernous room on the other side that looked like the inside of a factory. An open-rafter ceiling held pipes and conveyor belt supports hung in a random pattern. Long strips of florescent lighting were covered with metal grills that protected the room below if a bulb should break. Dust mites floated in the flickering light. Age and a lack of cleaning lent a hazy-yellow hue to the window and obscured part of the view of the larger room.
They moved carefully up to the door. “Nobody in sight, want me to poke around?”
“No. . .since it’s just two of us, we go in together. . .Duck and cover ‘til we find something. . .We get separated, meet back here. . .Sound good?”
“You’re the man with the plan. . .I’m ready anytime.”
The door made a scraping sound as it opened far enough for them to pass through. Bart used his height advantage to peer over Jake’s five-foot, eight-inch silhouette. They paused to see if there was a response, then slipped into the larger room. It was a secondary canning line for specialty items and mostly empty. A sliding door on the other side was propped open and gave a glimpse of the main part of the cannery.
They moved toward it in sequence—first one, and then the other—until they were within ten feet of the larger room. Each took a side of the door and peered into the larger room. Faint voices came through large double-doors on the other side of the main room that opened to a wharf. The smell of salt air and fish found its way under the door. The sun would set over the Pacific Ocean within the hour and automatic security lights were coming on. Their golden glow illuminated a fishing trawler and the gangplank that led to it.
Jake was about to move into the main room, when Bart put a hand across his chest to stop him. “Somebody’s coming.”
Excited murmuring emanated from the back wall of the main room where corridors branched off to other areas of the building. Two men were talking in one of the corridors, but Bart’s Russian was rusty and he only picked up a word or two. He keyed his mike. “They’re upset about something.”
“Yeah. . .none too happy.”
Two burly figures dressed in black tactical gear burst out of the far corridor at a near-run and headed toward the door that led to the wharf. One stepped out and yelled something in a Slavic language to a guard on the trawler. In less than a minute, two figures came out of the pilot house and ran down the gangplank. They entered a yellow pool of light as they stepped on to the wharf and Bart was able to identify them.
“They’re both here.”
Jake started to move, until he was once again restrained. “Whoa, there. . .let’s not get hasty.”
His expression turned in a flash from one of annoyance at being restrained to a question. “What?”
“Don’t know if the women are here or on the trawler. We force those two back on the boat, they might leave. . .Helluva lot harder to stop them on the water. . .Let’s search the building.”
“Good point. Two hallways. . .Each take one?”
“Negative. . .Stick together and cover our sixes. . .I’ll take point.”
“Right behind you, boss.”
“Hallways look the same. . .take the first.”
Two doors on the right and one further down on the left lined the thirty-foot hallway. Bart’s senses were hyperactive, and he moved slowly to avoid detection. Still, even the gentle rustling of his tactical rip-stop pants was magnified to a point that seemed to deafen him. He reached for the first door and eased it open. It appeared to be nothing more than a storage area with work tables and shelves.
He gently pulled the door shut and signaled for Jake to follow him to the next room. The beam of his flashlight swept the room until he realized that it was the guard’s quarters. A strong smell of body odor and whiskey assaulted his nostrils. Two bunks were occupied by what were probably sentries who had just gotten to sleep. An irritated voice mumbled something in Russian and Bart replied with a “sorry”—in Russian.
They backed out of the room and gently closed the door. Jake pulled a double-tube of super epoxy out of a pouch on his belt and ran a bead down the closing edge of the door. He squirted a little into the latch and the lock and stepped back to avoid inhaling the fumes. Within seconds, the door was secured as tightly as if they had nailed it shut. “Hold ‘em for awhile. . .Have to kick their way out.” He grinned.
“Good work. . .Move to the last door.”
“Padlocked.”
“Got your picks?”
“Always.” The lock clicked open in no time, but the door would not budge. “Blocked.” He pulled the telescoping mirror from his pocket and extended it underneath. “Almost dark. . .Whoa, looks like a body.”
“Push.”
The combined force of the two men gradually moved the door open wide enough for them to squeeze into the room. Bart found a light switch high on the wall and wavering florescent lights flickered slowly to life.
“Damn, this bad boy took a beating.” Jake followed up his words by putting a finger on the prone figure’s neck and shaking his head from side to side. “Dead.”
“Must’ve taken a while. . .Scratches on the door. . .You’d think he’d have a radio.”
“Empty bracket on his belt. . .radio’s gone.”
Bart pointed to the other side of the room. “Two prisoners were here. . .I swear I can smell Nora’s perfume. So where are they?”
“Trawler’s my guess.”
“Maybe, but why all the commotion? Might could be they escaped.”
“Not down this hallway. . .would’ve seen them.”
“Maybe got out earlier.”
“Could be. . .”
“Look out!”
Bart’s warning was a second too late. Jake was kneeling next to the body when he was bowled over by the door being pushed open further. The impact sent him sprawling over the body as two dark-suited figures forced their way into the room. He drew a suppressed pistol from a holster on his vest and shot the first guard twice in the face at close range. The dying body pitched forward and trapped him.
The second guard stood still—eyes opened wide—with his partner’s brains splattered all over him. He wiped his eyes with a sleeve as Bart snapped off a round. It went wide and caused an explosion of splinters that sprayed the guard in the face. He raised his arm again to protect his eyes and a second shot hit him below the chin. He dropped his hands to his throat as blood spurted between his fingers. The impact of a third shot thrust him backward and halfway into the hallway.
Jake squirmed his way out from under the body of the first guard, pulled
the second guard in from the hallway with Bart’s help and closed the door. “Thanks, Boss, think anybody heard?”
“Won’t matter. . .They got three men missing. . .Won’t take ‘em long to figure out it’s not a smoke break. . .Better get moving.”
The radio on the dead guard’s belt squawked, followed by a voice in Russian.
“What’d they say?”
“Not sure. . .Sounds like they’re pissed, though. . .Let’s move.”
“Roger that,” Jake cautiously opened the door and waited while his teammate stepped through. He closed the door and replaced the padlock—after pulling a few pieces of wire out of a pouch and stuffing them into the lock. Even the original key couldn’t open it now. “Slow ‘em down a bit. . .Shame there was no time to set a trap.”
Bart grinned. “Not as much time as I’d like. . .But I popped the pin on a grenade. . .wedged it under one of the bodies. . .Old Viet Cong trick.” He looked around. “We’re a little out in the open. . .slip in there.” Motioning for him to follow, he moved into the storage room they searched earlier and closed the door behind them.
Jake sat down on a work table and relaxed as much as anyone ever could in combat. “Month ago, could you imagine yourself here?”
“Not on your life, son. . .Not on your life.”
***
TIMBER CREEK PRESS