Something that sounds very much like a car door slamming thumps behind the back wall.
George and I swap startled glances. He bolts for the office door.
Who’s out there? A security guard? A cartel heavy? Why are they here? Did they plan to be here anyway, or did we trip an alarm?
A key scrapes into the back door’s deadbolt. Yes, I can hear it from yards away.
“Quickly…”
“Quiet.” The lock clicks. “Inside, now.”
The office is long and narrow, with fake knotty-pine paneling. Three massive steel-gray desks—probably refugees from some government-surplus auction—jut out from the back wall. There’s a door at the far end, probably for a toilet, and old chalkboards line the front wall. It’s hard to get a real picture of the room because I can see only a small circle of it at a time.
“Turn off your light.” George has his ear to the door. “They’re inside.”
I turn off my flashlight. The room gets very dark. I whisper, “They?”
“He. It.”
I stand still for a few moments, not wanting to breathe or even blink hard. But then I think, wait a minute. “Gonna look for the front door.”
“Don’t use your light.”
Okay. I walk backwards until I bump into a desk. Now I know where the back wall is. I skim my foot forward an inch above the linoleum tiles, slowly transferring my weight. After four paces, my outstretched hand hits the front wall. Now all I have to do is sidestep to my right to reach the door.
My foot nudges something soft. First thought: a dead body. My stomach rolls up into a ball. But another nudge tells me that whatever it is, it’s not solid enough to be meat. I slowly squat, reach down, and grab a handful of something that squishes, like a cushion. The thing is roughly oval. WTF? I twist my Maglite’s head so the barest glimmer of light comes out.
It’s a dog bed. A big dog bed. “Um, George?”
The growl at the room’s other end sounds big enough to fill the bed.
George’s eyes snap from me to the growl. I open my light a bit more and aim it at the far end of the office.
There in the shadows, a large, square-bodied, square-headed dog is aimed right at us. Probably a pit bull/Clydesdale mix. His fangs reflect the light. His eyes glow orange.
George hisses, “Turn off your light. Find the door. Now.”
A bright light in the warehouse bay sweeps past the gap under the office door.
The moment I twist off my flashlight, I hear the galumphing of big paws carrying a bigger dog straight at me. No way I can get out of the way in time. All my insides join my stomach in a ball, hoping they can avoid becoming dinner. I grab the dog bed, wrap the ends around my hands, and hold it like a net in front of me.
A sack of cement covered in hair slams into me. I slide a few feet on my back. Stars from my head bouncing off the floor. A thousand pounds of pooch stands on my chest, his head wrapped in the dog bed sandwiched between my hands. His teeth tear at the cloth that’s keeping his bellowing from bursting my eardrums.
I don’t wanna be eaten. Please don’t eat me.
A burst of bullets punches through the hollow-core office door and thuds into the drywall above my head. Gypsum dust cascades into my eyes. I feel George’s feet swing past my head as he lunges for the front door. Even if we get out, the guy in the warehouse will be right behind us.
Unless…
The dog jerks back, almost tears the bed out of my hands. I manage to kick him off me. He barks louder. I push myself against the office door, untangle my left hand, reach up to flip open the deadbolt just in time for Cujo to crash into my chest again. My free hand manages to grab his leather collar, as wide as a man’s belt. The side of his muzzle slams my arm into the wall. Dog spit and dog breath smother me.
George’s voice, just audible: “Door’s open! Come on!”
With what little strength I have left in my arms, I shove Cujo off me. He yelps, then roars. Claws scrabble on the linoleum.
Wait for it. Wait for it…
A paw stomps my calf. I twist the doorknob, then roll to my left.
The dog slams into the door, ripping the knob out of my hand. He sails through into the warehouse.
A man screams louder than the barks.
Chapter 40
23 DAYS LEFT
I say, “Did I mention how much I hate warehouses?”
George yanks out an earbud. Mournful jazz piano dribbles out. “What was that?”
“I hate warehouses.”
We’re in the Shooting Star Café at the northern edge of Oakland’s Chinatown. It normally closes at 1:30, but George knows somebody who knows somebody, and they let us slide in just shy of two while the night crew cleans up. It’s not the kind of dive you’d expect to be open this late—it’s clean and orderly, royal-blue walls, plush high-back chairs with tufted magenta upholstery, and LEDs as twinkling stars in the deep blue ceiling.
George chews his garlic fries thoughtfully. “I don’t mind warehouses. Can’t say I’m fond of the dogs that live in them, though. Now what?”
I wolf down another spring roll. Being terrified makes me hungry. “Did we just burn that place?”
“I thought so when we left.” He sips something from a tall glass. It’s the consistency of iced tea except it’s hazy pink. Since he ordered in Chinese, I have no idea what it is. “Now I think, maybe not. He never saw us. I didn’t return fire. For all he knows, we were some punks who broke in to steal something and the wolf spoiled our plans.”
“Unless they had cameras.”
“Don’t think so. If they did, they’d have seen two of us. They’d have seen my weapon. They’d send more than one man.”
“You’re sure there was only one?”
“Unless the others were flying, yes.”
Levitation doesn’t seem worth considering now. “You think they’ll use the place again?”
George shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised. If they do, they’ll step up security. Better locks. Maybe give the dog a vacation, put a man in the office.”
“So what you’re saying is, we’ll never get inside again.”
“Yes.”
Great. I’ve gotta figure out how to make the WCZ-Manresa connection. That warehouse is all I’ve got. It’s frustrating to get this close and then blow it. “We can stake it out, I guess. See if there’s any activity.”
“We can do that. If there is, then what?”
Stake out = sit and do nothing while the clock ticks down. The last thing I want to do. “I’ll have plenty of time to think about that.”
We watch the activity around WCZ’s warehouse.
Nicer cars than the neighborhood calls for drive around back every six hours. A guy goes inside the warehouse; some other guy comes out, drives off.
On Thursday, a dude in a green Transit van replaces the back door’s original deadbolt and installs what looks like a magnetic lock along the header.
I see all this from a swaybacked 1980s Winnebago parked on the west side of Pine Street, across a large vacant lot from the warehouse. It’s one of a line of apartments-on-wheels on this block. George set up a Nikon DSLR with a bazillion-millimeter lens on a tripod on the kitchen table; all I have to do is aim and shoot whenever something happens. That, and ignore the mildew smell from the ratty harvest-gold carpet.
George and I swap out every eight hours. I can’t decide which is worse: sitting on my butt in the motorhome watching paint dry, or sitting on my butt in my hotel room doing the same. I read and do more internet research. I run a lot to burn off all the crap I eat in the motorhome. Savannah keeps calling; she’s lonely and wants me to visit. I have to make up a string of out-of-town meetings to duck her, which I hate doing. Olivia finally gives in to my whining and moves me to the Hyatt House Emeryville. It’s just up the freeway from West Oakland and has a wider variety of available food than I had next to the airport.
Still, I’m climbing th
e walls by Saturday morning. It marks forty days since I started this project, twenty days to the end. I need to do something to move this along. But what?
An email from Olivia helps wake me up.
WCZ Ltd. owns a facility on Highway 1340 outside the village of Arunothai, Mueang Na Sub-District, Chiang Dao District, Chiang Mai Province, Thailand. I cannot guarantee this is the same WCZ as the one you are seeking.
The satellite shots in Google Maps show Arunothai as a jumble of houses and businesses hugging the Thai-Myanmar border. StreetView gives me paved roads and small single-story houses, not huts or shanties. Highway 1340 leads south from what I think is the center of town (at least, it has a gas station and grocery store). If I follow it far enough, it connects with highways that eventually hit Chiang Mai, the big city in northwest Thailand. A road big enough to be marked with a yellow line heads north from the end of Highway 1340, skirts the border, then crosses it a couple miles outside town. It becomes Highway 45 inside Myanmar.
Highway 45 leads to the Nam Ton river.
If this isn’t the right WCZ, it’s a helluva coincidence.
Monday morning. Eighteen days left.
George says, “Got a plan yet?” He’s here at eight to relieve me after a dead night at the warehouse except for the guard changes.
“I’m waiting for a phone call.”
“Don’t wait too long.” He lays his breakfast burrito and coffee on the table next to the camera. “Their timeline isn’t our friend.” That follows me back to the hotel and through breakfast.
Len calls me before I can call him. “Starbucks says they haven’t seen you in weeks. What the fuck, Friedrich?” I have to remind him about the freelance job and helping build the house. He reminds me that the employment audit is coming soon and he hopes all my work records are squared away. They aren’t. I can’t be done with this shit soon enough.
I crawl into bed, exhausted, but can’t sleep right away. Worrying about going back to prison is part of it; the other is the steady ticking of the project clock. I don’t know what Plan B is if Allyson doesn’t come through.
Pounding blasts me awake at noon, the middle of my night. I pull on some boxers and yell “What?” through the door.
A sharp-faced, crew-cut guy in a dark suit holds his ID up to the peephole. “Special Agent Montooth, ICE HSI. Open up.”
Either Allyson came through or things are going to get unpleasant. “Hold on.” I throw on some jeans and a polo, then open the door. Montooth pushes past me, checks the room. “Why don’t you come in?”
He looks in the bathroom. “You’re Friedrich?”
“Yeah.”
He stands in the bathroom doorway and folds his arms. “Talbot sent me. You wanted to talk.”
Talbot was supposed to come himself. “And I believe you why?”
He sighs, pulls his phone, stabs his screen. “Yeah, boss, he wants to know I’m legit… Okay.” Montooth pushes the phone at me.
I expect it to shock me when I touch it. “Agent Talbot?”
“Yes, it’s me. I sent my man there to talk to you. I can’t be seen anywhere near you. He’s briefed in, at least enough. Understand?”
“He speaks for you?”
“He knows my number.”
Well, duh. This doesn’t make me happy, but I don’t get a say in it. “Okay, we’ll play it your way. Thanks.”
Montooth stays on the line for a minute of “uh-huh” and “yes, sir,” then pockets his phone and nods to the desk chair. I wave him to it; I need to stand so I don’t fall asleep.
Once he settles, he says, “You wanted to talk to us. So talk.”
I bring him up-to-date on what George and I have been doing with the warehouse. “We should see a handoff from WCZ to Manresa sometime in the next couple days. That’s the link you guys need, right?”
“Yeah, if that’s what’s happening.” His tightly-crossed arms say he’s not convinced. “What do you want?”
I’ve had some time to work out what I’m about to say. I need them to buy off on this on my terms. “We’ll keep watching. We’re part of the landscape now. I’ll send you several dozen photos of the cars and people who’ve gone in and out of the place so you can ID them. When the meet goes down, I call you, and you crash the party. That gives you the players and the pots. You get a nice big break in your investigation with very little effort on your part. Sound good so far?”
Montooth’s face hasn’t changed. “I’m listening.”
A little encouragement would be nice, but no. “I’m passing this directly to you because I don’t want it getting out to anybody else, like your other CI. I want Talbot to know that I got this for him on behalf of my client. Understand?”
“Why aren’t you going through your back channel anymore?”
“Because I don’t feel trusting right now. I think I know where the other CI’s getting his intel from, but I need to cover myself in case I’m wrong. But make no mistake—the other CI’s swiping my intel. I want to make sure that stops. Do we have a deal?”
Montooth gives me Mt. Rushmore for a few beats, then rocks out of the desk chair. “Stay here.” He disappears into the bathroom and closes the door.
I sag into the chair and put my head in my hands. My body clock is totally screwed up. I’ve become more convinced each day that I’ve wasted a week I can’t afford to lose. Allyson still hasn’t gotten the client to pop for a field trip to Thailand, which is the only way I can finish this and still get my golden ticket to the chocolate factory. And now my head hurts and all I want to do is sleep.
Montooth marches out of the bathroom to the nightstand, writes on the notepad, tears off a sheet. “Put your photos someplace we can get to. Text the address to this number. We’ll take a look. We’ll be in touch if it’s worth anything.” He folds his arms. “No promises. You got our attention. The rest’s on you.”
Tuesday night. Seventeen days left.
I was supposed to be off from four to midnight, but George called me in a couple hours early. “Something’s happening,” he said, without saying what exactly.
I peer through the camera. Three cars are lined up just west of the warehouse on the concrete slab. That’s more action than we’ve seen in almost a week. A wiry dude’s standing outside the back door with some kind of assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “What’s up out front? I don’t see the campers.”
“Our friends paid them off about two hours ago. All five cars left. The big surprise is that they could all still move.”
That’s the big hint something’s going down. We exchange meaningful looks.
Unfortunately, I haven’t heard from ICE. Olivia tells me they grabbed the photos from the Dropbox she set up yesterday morning, but it’s been radio silence since then. Does that mean they’re not playing?
I still have Montooth’s note. Does the number still work? There’s only one way to find out. Warehouse prepping 4 action. 3 cars outside 1 armed guard. Ready?
We watch a dark SUV roll through the warehouse’s double-gated east entrance. It backs into place beside the other cars. Three guys get out, walk in formation to the back door. George shoots pictures. The three stop at the door; the guard lets them in.
George says, “Two knocks, then one, then two more.”
During the minute that bit of action happened, I checked my phone three times for a reply from ICE. Nothing. I text the door signal to Montooth’s number in case somebody’s paying attention. For all I know, they’re in some bar watching baseball.
Just shy of eleven, a weathered white panel truck turns right onto Ninth from southbound Pine Street. It trundles toward the warehouse, stops, then carefully turns into the driveway. The driver backs it into the loading dock like he knows what he’s doing. The dock’s roll-up door opens, throwing a rectangle of light over the truck’s cargo box. A guy wheels out an appliance dolly while another guy opens the cargo doors. A minute later, the dolly has a crate on it and is headed in
side.
I text, Delivery happening now. R u there?
Another crate comes out. Then another.
My phone pings. It’s a text from Montooth: Hold. Does that mean “stay there” or “hold, please”? Do I get Muzak next?
George says, “Well?”
“I’m on hold, or ‘ignore.’ It’s like I’m calling the cable company.”
The loading-dock door slides down, cutting off the lightspill.
Then, nothing. The guard outside the back door sparks up a cigarette.
Thirty minutes. “Come on, guys,” I mutter for the eleventy-seventh time. “Don’t fucking blow this.”
An hour. I’ve paced the Winnebago’s aisle almost enough to wear out the carpet. The loading-dock door opens. The same dude with a dolly loads two crates into the truck.
Are they leaving? Did ICE just punt this? I ask George, “Can we block them if they leave?”
“Are you bulletproof?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
The truck leaves the loading dock, pulls into Ninth Street, then parks in front of the warehouse. I try to telepathically short out his fuel pump. What’s he doing?
Ninety minutes. The loading dock closes. The light outside the warehouse’s back door dies. A yellow Ryder panel truck chugs past us toward Ninth. It swerves right, then backs down Ninth to the white truck. It stops a few feet away.
Coulson? Are Bandineau’s new pots in the white truck?
The two drivers meet on the sidewalk, just two dark shapes in the orange streetlight wash. After a few minutes, they crack open their cargo boxes.
Something moves in front of the broken-down junkyard across the street from them. At first I can’t make it out. Then it hits the edge of the streetlights: a line of federal ninjas spreading out around the two trucks.
Out back of the warehouse, another ninja has the guard flipped on his front and trussed up like a turkey. More ninjas melt out of the dark.
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 24