In It For the Money

by Cathy Perkins

  Then again, maybe these buildings weren’t the most secure option. Half the places didn’t even have a fence.

  Of course, Mikhail’s warehouse had one. She remembered the open gate they’d entered earlier. Undoubtedly, it would be closed and locked now. Although, as Frank had already pointed out, they weren’t exactly planning to waltz through the front door.

  He stopped beside the fence and placed his pack on the ground. His flashlight glowed red for a moment, then disappeared.

  Huh. Whatever the red glow was, the light didn’t mess up her night vision. She glanced left and right, surprised at how much she could see. A glow from the Tri-Cities flared on the horizon, but overhead, a thick cluster of stars twinkled and a nearly-full moon blushed like a bride’s pearl.

  Frank tossed a small pad that looked like part of a moving blanket over the top of the fence. It covered the sharp points, and hopefully would keep them from getting snagged or stuck.

  “Use the chain links, just stick your toes in until you get to the top,” he instructed. “Like this.”

  He slung the pack over his shoulders, scrambled up the fence, flipped his legs over the mat and dropped down the other side. She followed, a bit slower and definitely less graceful. They slipped across the paved area behind the warehouse and climbed the concrete stairs to a rear entrance.

  “We’re both toast if we get caught in here.” He lowered his backpack and reached inside it.

  “Then let’s don’t get caught.”

  In spite of her flippant words, her stomach cramped. She gazed back at the lot where they’d left his Jeep. Although the area remained dark and silent, she felt as if a hundred eyes were tracking their movements. There was more than law enforcement to worry about. Why hadn’t she considered the possibility of security guards?

  Her attention shifted back to Frank. He’d told her he’d watched the warehouse. He would never have agreed to this if Mikhail posted a guard.

  Frank pulled on a pair of latex gloves and tossed a pair at her. “Put those on.” He opened a small case and lifted out slim tools.

  “Lock picking. Useful skill for law enforcement.”

  Moonlight picked out his white teeth as he grinned. “Shut up and pray there isn’t anyone inside.”

  She grimaced. “What about the alarm system?”

  He grunted and slid the first tool into the lock. “Really thought this through, didn’t you?”

  “I saw you checking out the security system in the office.” She couldn’t tell what he was doing to the lock, but if he wanted to whisper, okay with her. Talking beat standing around letting her imagination create monsters. “That’s your area.”

  “If you’re doing something illegal, the last thing you’re going to do is wire an alarm directly into law enforcement. I don’t know who’s monitoring their system or what the reaction time is.” The lock gave an audible click and the doorknob turned. “They aren’t going to arrest us if they catch us.”

  “No. They’ll probably shoot us and ask questions later, if we’re still around to answer.”

  “The eternal optimist.” He eased the door open and slipped inside.

  Holding her breath, she followed. No blaring alarm. No blinking red light from a control panel.

  Would they even have a set of controls by the door? She peered around, wondering if there was a monitoring camera.

  “Keep your head down.” He clicked on his flashlight.

  He brought out a second flashlight and handed it to her. The cones of light led them through the dark aisles to the loading dock.

  “Dammit.” She swung her light across the open space. Only one pallet remained on the loading dock’s concrete apron. “They’ve already moved them.”

  She pulled out the pocketknife she’d stashed in her pocket and reached toward the pallet’s heavy plastic wrap.

  “Hold it.” Frank stretched out a restraining hand. “These aren’t going anywhere. Let’s look around first. There were at least four pallets here earlier today.”

  By silent agreement, they headed toward the plywood table she had noticed during the earlier search. A broken open pallet of Cascade Precision parts stood to the left of the table. To the right were two pallets, stacked with boxes the same size as the Cascade Precision product—but printed with a different logo.

  “Son of a bitch.” She grabbed one of the repackaged products and tore open the box. The part looked like George and Tate’s design, but she’d spent enough time with the component she knew immediately something was off.

  “Look at this.” She scrolled back to the picture she’d taken on Saturday and held it up beside the unboxed part.

  Frank studied the picture. His gaze flicked to the unboxed suspension she’d placed on the plywood table. “The same, but not.”

  She flipped the part over, looking for the telltale patch of the parts used to carry drugs.

  “Look.” She pointed. The metal surface was unmarred. “This isn’t one of the drug parts.”

  This component wasn’t as lightweight as the sabotaged, drug-smuggling parts.

  She added up the clues, and realized, “They’re counterfeiting, not stealing.”

  Anger bubbled in her chest. “Those damn fake parts the drivers talked about. This is where they’re coming from. Mikhail has to be in on it. Why would he do something that dangerous to the drivers?”

  Frank’s lips thinned. “Greed is usually my first bet in situations like this. Hurry up and do what you need to do.” He disappeared into the shadows.

  She took pictures of the repackaging station, the partially redone stack of Cascade Precision boxes and the stacks of parts in a different company’s package. Finally, she wiggled several boxes away from both pallets. As she stuffed the boxes in her backpack, Frank returned.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Nearly finished.”

  “Now.” He grabbed her backpack with one hand and her arm with the other.

  “What? Why—?”

  He pulled her toward the back of the warehouse. “I was watching the monitors in the office. A truck just turned into the front parking lot. They’re unlocking the gate.”

  She didn’t need more encouragement to run. They burst out the rear door just as a clang sounded from the front. Neither spoke as they tore across the back parking area.

  “Get over the fence,” he ordered.

  Footsteps pounded behind them. Damn.

  “They went out the back,” someone shouted.

  “Don’t wait. Climb.” Frank scrambled up the fence to the protective mat.

  She jammed fingers and toes into the wire mesh and clambered after him.

  Four frantic steps up, she jerked to a stop with her sneaker wedged in the wire.

  He threw his legs over the top and dropped to the ground. “Hurry up.”

  “I’m stuck.” She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder and tugged on her foot.

  The backdoor slammed open and two men spilled onto the rear platform. One raised a pistol and fired. Bullets pinged off the fence.

  Oh, my God!

  She shrieked and flinched into the smallest target she could manage.

  Frank rammed his fist against her toe and her shoe popped lose. Adrenaline flew her to the top of the fence. She rolled over the mat. Rather than risk another trapped shoe, she jumped and dropped into Frank’s grasp. They staggered, but he dragged her to her feet.

  “Run!”

  They tore across the field as another man sprinted out the warehouse door. More wild shots ricocheted off the fence. She swore she heard a bullet whiz past her head.

  Frank had the Jeep rolling before she closed her door. He shot down the row of trucks, putting the 18-wheelers between them and the shooters. Zigzagging, he cut across the terminal, then peeled through a vacant lot. Sand flew from the tires as the Jeep maneuvered around stunted sagebrush and clusters of rocks.

  “Good thing we brought your Jeep and not my rental.” She turned, straining against the seat belt, chec
king for signs of pursuit.

  Frank grinned. “Doubt they’ll run that truck over here after us.”

  He gunned the Jeep through a drainage ditch and up onto Highway 12.

  “One way to merge onto a highway.” She grabbed the safety bar and swayed as the Jeep rocked on its suspension.

  “There aren’t many roads over here. Limits the ways we can get out and the places they have to check to cut us off. Highway 12 is the fastest way back to town.”

  She peered through the rear window again. “I don’t see anyone behind us.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.” He pressed the accelerator harder. “I don’t want to meet those guys on a side road.”

  She shuddered. When she dreamed up this crazy scheme, she’d envisioned them in and out of the warehouse before anyone noticed they were there. The wild surge of adrenaline produced by their escape was ebbing, leaving her barely able to sit upright.

  “Sorry I dragged you into this.” She shook her head. “I didn’t—”

  “Think it would go this way?” He lifted an eyebrow and gave her a quick scan. “You okay?”

  “I’m in one piece, thanks to you.” She adjusted the seat belt and straightened. Best to get things back on an investigative track. “We have proof now. There are two separate but intertwined scams going on. There’s the drug smuggling using the hollowed out parts. And the parts in that warehouse are knockoffs. The DEA can handle the drugs. Those fakes”—she hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the warehouse they’d just escaped—”might solve the inventory shrink and the bad parts, but it doesn’t prove who’s behind it.”

  “A couple minutes ago, you were sure Mikhail was behind it.”

  “His warehouse, and all that jazz. Remember earlier, when he claimed the DEA was blackmailing him and making him keep running the drugs? What if he tries something like that with these parts? Saying it’s really someone else doing it?”

  Someone like, say, her cousin.

  Frank’s gaze cycled through the side and rear mirrors. “It’s his warehouse. Who else is he going to blame?”

  “I found some evidence—not conclusive take-to-court evidence—that Tate was being set up as the person selling the drug parts.” She caught Frank’s questioning glance. “The hollowed out ones. Those are different from the knockoffs we saw just now. I don’t know if Mikhail—if he’s the one behind these fakes—also planted evidence implicating Tate in that scheme.”

  “You’re sure Cascade’s owner—what’s his name? George?—is clear?”

  Her head sagged against the seatback. “A week ago, I’d have sworn he was clean. Now... Damn. The only person I believe is Tate. I don’t know what to do next.”

  “You want to take the parts to George?” Frank asked.

  “I can’t exactly take them to the sheriff’s department and turn them over as evidence of a crime.”

  He gave a lopsided smile. “It might be tough to explain where you got them.”

  “Theoretically, it’s George’s inventory that’s been stolen. Or he can claim an anonymous tip and get the cops involved that way, can’t he?”

  Frank nodded. “He can claim it. Think he’d throw you under the bus?”

  She considered that as they turned off the highway and drove toward the main warehouse where they’d left her car. “I don’t think he’d give them my name, but either way, I’m leaving you out of it.”

  “Fair enough.” He turned the Jeep onto the access road to the warehouse and parked near her rental car.

  “Thanks, Frank. Like I said—”

  “We’ve got company.” Frank’s words were quiet, but they landed like a bombshell.

  She jumped and pivoted in her seat. Behind them, a truck completed the turn onto the warehouse road.

  “Damn.”

  “If it’s the same truck, we don’t want these guys to find us.” He opened his door and scanned the area. “We have limited options, no cover. We need to get inside the warehouse and find a place to hide until they leave.”

  “Come on.” She jerked open her door and sprinted for the loading dock steps. She dragged her cell from her pocket, thrilled she hadn’t lost it when she toppled over the fence, and keyed the notes app as she skidded to a stop at the door.

  She tapped in the access code and wrenched the door open. “Back in the stacks. We can stay out of sight if we’re quiet.”

  A moment later, she leaned against a stack of car parts and tried to calm her ragged breathing. Frank stood beside her, a darker shadow in the gloom. The loading dock door rattled open and the mutter of the truck’s engine reached them. She peeked between the merchandise on the shelves. Two guys stood on the loading dock, silhouetted by the truck highlights. External lights flicked on, illuminating the apron. Fingers of light reached into the inventory stacks, creating strange overlapping shadows.

  She and Frank exchanged glances. He held up three fingers and she nodded. At least three men. Two on the loading dock plus whoever had turned on the lights. There might be more.

  Without saying a word, they slipped around the far end of the aisle, working deeper into the warehouse.

  Behind them, she heard the beeping of a forklift in reverse. The machine rumbled onto the loading dock and maneuvered close to the open truck. She eased around the end of a shelving stack. Shaking off Frank’s restraining hand, she peered toward the loading dock.

  A man on the forklift was removing pallets from the truck. Another man with a handcart moved the stacked parts to a table at the side of the bay.

  Unsure where Frank stood in the shadows, she kept her voice low. “Why are they unloading after hours?”

  She jerked as a hand closed over her mouth. The fingers stifled her shriek. When she blew out a long breath, Frank stepped back, releasing her.

  “Shut up. And why do you think they’re doing it now?” He kept his words barely above a whisper.

  “Uh, ‘cause they don’t want people to see them?”

  “Knew you weren’t stupid.”

  She tapped the camera icon on her cell and snapped a picture.

  “It’s too dark for it to be any good,” he muttered.

  “The editing software may lighten it.” She leaned close to his ear. “Can’t hurt to try.”

  He slipped down the aisle in the opposite direction. She followed, paying careful attention to where she placed her feet. The last thing she wanted was send a stack of car parts crashing to the floor. At the end of the row, she ducked under Frank’s outstretched arm and peered toward the front of the warehouse.

  At the packaging station, several men segregated the boxes from the first pallet. When a stack developed on the packing table, one carefully placed a sticker on the side of each box and laid it on a new pallet.

  The bar codes. That was how they did it. She tried to envision the boxes with the transposed SKUs. Were those codes stickers or printed on the boxes? At the time, she’d been more interested in the part inside.

  Reaching around Frank, she snapped another picture. He simply shook his head.

  They watched in silence as the men worked.

  “Think it’s the same guys from the other warehouse?” she whispered. Her legs and feet grew numb from crouching down. She shifted, trying to get the blood moving again.

  He shook his head, then spoke directly into her ear. “Can’t tell. Doubt it. I think we just found the DEA’s drugs.”

  After depositing a second pallet, the forklift driver maneuvered the tines under the re-wrapped pallet of Cascade Precision parts and disappeared into the gloom of the building.

  Frank tugged Holly into a crouch close to the shelves. In the dim light from the loading area, she saw his shushing finger at his lips. They tracked the rumble of the forklift down the main aisle. It turned into a row on the far side of the warehouse. A moment later, it beeped into reverse, then retraced its route to the loading dock.

  The forklift moved back and forth and the men worked without speaking. After what felt like forever, the last
pallet from the truck was moved to the packing table.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Frank’s breath was warm against her ear. “The DEA could’ve used a sneak-and-peek at that second warehouse.”

  “A what?”

  “A delayed notification warrant. Keeps them from tipping off the suspect. They move in and look for—or take—the drugs as evidence without delivering the warrant. The bad guy comes back and his shit’s gone. Then the agents watch to see who he calls or what he does. I wonder if they flipped it. Used that warrant and drug dog to provoke a response.”

  “You mean this?” She tipped her thumb at the men.

  “Yeah. If these guys are clearing house.”

  Frank’s head turned, but she couldn’t see much in the dim warehouse other than the activity at the front. The last of the segregated stock was moved from the packing table to the truck’s tailgate.

  Her phone rang.

  Shit!

  She slammed her hand over the speaker and fumbled for the mute button.

  Frank stared at her, eyes gone wide.

  The muffled sound stopped.

  Damn, damn, double damn.

  The two guys at the packing table abruptly stopped working. Their heads swiveled, looking for the source of the ringtone. One pulled a gun and moved toward them. He paused, turned to the second man and waved his gun toward the far side of the warehouse.

  The second man moved in that direction. “Ramón,” he shouted. “Sebastián.”

  The man driving the forklift stopped. In the following silence, he climbed from the machine and also fanned out, gun in hand.

  Ramón?

  Holly craned her neck. Who—and where—was Sebastián?

  Were there even more of them?

  Frank pulled her to another row. She recognized the darker bulk of the desk she and Rick had used on Saturday. She tugged at Frank’s arm and pointed. He nodded and they crouched behind the desk.

  Footsteps echoed off the concrete and metal as the first man worked his way slowly up the right side of the warehouse. She would’ve sworn he could hear the thunder of her heart. The rasp of her breath.