by Nico Rosso
When the sound of the engine faded, replaced by the brittle weeds shivering in a biting breeze, she and Ben resumed their progress. The smell of engine oil and axle grease announced the approach of the rail yard.
Ben suddenly stopped and crouched low. He motioned with his hand toward their eleven o’clock position. A police car patrolled up and down the streets in a serpentine pattern that covered all the corners. It wasn’t a normal scan of a quiet town, keeping the citizens safe.
She brought her ear close to Ben’s mouth. He whispered, “Perimeter sweep.”
For the rail yard. They both waited until the police car finished the sector and cleared to another area. Silence descended again. Ben climbed up the opposite side of the ditch while she followed. A ten-foot cinderblock wall now separated them from the train tracks they’d been following. He made quick hand gestures to indicate that he’d help her up first, then he put his back to the wall. She readied herself and approached him quickly. His cradled hands supported her first step. Her other foot pressed off his shoulder, then she was easily on top of the wall.
The tracks glowed like a spiderweb covered in dew on the other side of the wall. Lights shined farther north in the heart of the train yard, and exhaust billowed from idling engines. The warehouses were black rectangles, voids in the landscape. She spotted no movement in the immediate area and waved Ben forward.
He ran up the wall toward her. She leaned down with her hand outstretched. His momentum and her strength carried him to the edge of the wall with her. They both swung over and jumped down to the other side.
They clung to the thick shadow at the base of the wall and remained motionless. The border had been crossed. Hostile territory stretched out in front of them. Once she was sure no one had detected them, she attached her night vision monocular to a telescopic sight and scanned the area around the warehouses four hundred yards away.
Ben crouched next to her. She knew he was watching their immediate surroundings as her visual recon eliminated her peripheral vision. His hand rested on her back and would communicate any trouble.
She finished her assessment, brought her body closer to his and whispered in the smallest breaths, “Motion lights on the corners. Eighty percent coverage. We can shoot the gaps in the overlap.”
He tapped his hand on her back to signal his readiness. She sprinted away from the wall and across four sets of tracks until she found the next pool of shadows in a hollow between two switching towers. Ben slid in right behind her.
No detection. She pointed in the direction of the next run, and Ben nodded. Now that she was on point, he covered their rear. The switch was seamless. He showed no ego about following her orders. She slipped out of the hollow and ran to the broader swath of shadows created by the warehouses.
Ben stayed on her hip and ran backward the last few yards until they settled into the new cover. They were still about three hundred yards from the warehouses, but there was little between them and the tall, wide buildings.
She and Ben crouched low and approached slowly. Their boots crunched on the gravel, but someone would have to be right on top of them to hear it. She recalled the position of the motion lights and angled their path so they’d be between the spread of the sensors. The two of them stopped every ten or so paces to assess their surroundings. So far, no one had spotted them and there were no people working on this side of the warehouses.
But there was activity on the far end. A metal door screeched open and slammed shut. The sound cycled again. She pointed to her ear, and Ben nodded. He’d heard it, too. It could be one person coming and going, or two people entering the warehouse. At two hundred yards, she and Ben were still too far to hear any voices. Tension charged her limbs. She had to be ready. They had no cover if there was trouble coming.
She pressed forward with Ben in careful increments. The warehouse was silent after the two door slams. One hundred yards away, the voices emerged. Clipped, orderly sentences, but she couldn’t make out the words.
The pressure of the stealthy insertion increased and her pace became even more deliberate. They were twenty yards from the side of the warehouse. The motion detectors would be able to see them from this point forward. A row of unlit windows, ten feet off the ground, lined the short side of the warehouse they approached. If a light turned on outside, the men inside would be able to see it. But whoever had hung the security sensors hadn’t done as perfect a job as she would’ve. If she was correct, there should be a narrow gap in the spread she and Ben could ride to the wall of the warehouse.
She charted her path and still expected a light to turn on with each step forward. She had to be ready for anything. Quick gestures told Ben that if the floods hit them, she’d break to the right. The train yard continued in that direction but gave way to a scrubby swamp, which would be easy to hide in. Ben nodded, then held up three fingers and made the symbol of a person walking. At least three men in the warehouse. He’d picked out the voices. She gave him a thumbs-up and motioned for them to continue.
Ten yards. Now she heard the distinction between the talkers inside. It sounded like they were on the far side of the building, muffled by quite a few crates. No laughing or joking. The talk seemed to be all logistics. Whatever their business at the moment, they had yet to turn on any interior lights on this end of the warehouse.
She and Ben made it over the last few yards of open ground and pressed their backs to the warehouse wall. From here they’d have about six feet of leeway to work along the building’s perimeter before the sensors caught them. She breathed to calm the tension and drew imaginary borders around the safe zones where they could operate.
Pointing at her eyes then the window above them, she told Ben she wanted to take a look inside. He again cradled his hands, and she stepped into them, then onto his shoulders. The man was like a steady mountain beneath her. She slowly peeked up into the window. Stacks and stacks of crates stood in stark, black contrast to a pool of light glowing on the far side of the warehouse. Three men gathered around a work table and stared down at a laptop computer. One of them periodically pointed to different areas of the warehouse. She couldn’t identify the men, but they had the same bearing as the collected truckers and guards who she and Ben had spotted at the state park meeting. And they wore assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
She tapped Ben with her toe and conveyed what she saw via hand signals while still scanning the warehouse. He squeezed her ankle as he received the information. The men inside continued their business. She remained on watch. Ben didn’t move or show any signs of fatigue.
The smell of military gun oil filled her nose. She ached to get inside the warehouse to see what was in the crates. She’d get her chance. One of the men closed the laptop, and the three of them filed out of the warehouse. The last man turned out the light, and welcome darkness blanketed the space.
A quick inspection of the window revealed foil tape around the glass and magnetic contacts poised at any opening point. The security system couldn’t have been any newer than the 1990s and hadn’t been well maintained. She unsheathed a slim knife from her boot and slid it between the corroded metal frame and window near a latch. The blade flaked rust away and tripped the latch. The hinges squeaked, and the window swung away. Quick panic flashed. She grabbed the window before it swung away from the magnetic switch.
Two centimeters. Any more, and the alarm would go off. She steadied herself, put the knife handle in her teeth and freed up a hand to dig into one of the pockets of her tactical vest. Delta operators were more than shooters. She’d been trained in safe cracking, security systems and lock picking, and equipped herself for most eventualities. Tonight’s countermeasure was a simple magnet she attached to the tip of her knife and slipped through the window and onto the alarm sensor.
But there was always the chance the technique would fail. She tapped on Ben’s shoulder, prepping him for the po
ssibility to run. He squeezed a response, ready. She eased the window open, past the point where the alarm would trip. Silence. Tension released from her neck and jaw. She and Ben remained ghosts.
The window louvered to the point where it was wide enough for her to crawl through. She hauled herself up and lined her belly on the edge. As he’d done before, Ben took one step back, then ran at the wall. He clasped her hand and brought himself into the open window next to her. They swung to the interior of the warehouse and dropped down to the floor.
She hit the hard concrete and hurried to cover behind a tall stack of crates. Ben disappeared just a few feet away from her. Neither moved for a moment as they assessed the new environment. As soon as she was sure they were alone, she returned to the wall and pulled on a long chain attached to the window to close it.
Their tracks covered, the two of them pressed farther into the warehouse. Yellow rail yard lights shined into the space from the opposite windows, giving just enough detail to navigate. The pallets and shipping boxes around them were coated in old dust and smelled of damp wood. These weren’t the guns. But she and Ben couldn’t just rush to the other side of the warehouse, as much as she wanted to. Their path curved, methodical, through the stacks of goods.
Ben poked his elbow into her arm, then pointed at a section of crates across the main aisle down the middle. She recognized the silhouettes. Wood, metal and hard plastic boxes. Military issue.
She and Ben skipped across the center aisle and crept behind the stacks of containers that reeked of gun oil. Some of the boxes still had their original shipping labels, along with their requisition numbers and destination base. Florida. Kit Daily’s old unit.
Ben hissed, “These fuckers are barely trying to hide.”
She carefully undid the latches on a long plastic container and opened the lid to reveal a long row of 9mm handguns wrapped in plastic and accompanied by two extra magazines each. “This is trouble when it hits the streets.”
“Or if someone’s trying to start a war.” He tipped his head toward another crate. She knew the contents from its familiar shape. M249 SAWs. Someone would pay a lot for a fully automatic light machine gun like that. And they could do a lot of damage with it.
“Tracker.” She unwrapped a pistol from the container before her and used a multi-tool to unscrew one of the grip plates. Ben placed a black tracker just a little larger than a grain of rice on the underside of the grip plate. It had a light coating of adhesive and stayed in place while she secured the plate back to the gun. They repeated the process for three more pistols, then closed the case. These were the same type of trackers he’d distributed in the bracelets, and as long as they were within range of a cell phone tower, they could be found.
Cracking open the wooden crates would’ve made too much noise. And it would’ve been nearly impossible to hide the signs of tampering with the tools she had at hand. She focused instead on an aluminum container that bore the dents of years of use. Inside were six U.S. military-issue M4 assault rifles, complete with optics on the top and flashlights and laser sights on the front rails. Ben lifted one out and slipped a tracker into the hollow grip. She had the next one out as he put it away, and they tagged all the weapons.
He closed the aluminum container and pointed at the crate of M249s. “I want those SAWs.” Anger edged his whisper. “Tracking them isn’t enough. I can foul the gas regulator. Two shots, and it’ll blow.”
“Do it,” she agreed and helped him undo the metal latches on the plywood crate. They set the lid aside, and he pulled one of three machine guns out of their foam cocoons. It wasn’t the quietest operation, even though he moved deliberately. Metal clanked against metal, and the sounds crept out into the warehouse.
He set the butt of the weapon on the ground and snapped open a blade from a multi-tool. The blade wedged into the gas regulator below the barrel and released it from its seat. He pulled a small tube of what looked like clay from one of his vest pockets, pinched off a small amount and kneaded it between his fingers.
She placed her mouth next to his ear. “I didn’t know SEALs were that crafty.”
He winked at her and continued to work the two-part epoxy for another few seconds. “Delta ain’t the only tricky group out there.”
“But we don’t exist.” She took hold of the SAW while Ben pressed a bit of the epoxy deep into the gas regulator with the tip of his knife. “If you look at my Army file, the only extracurricular you’ll see is the women’s golf team.”
He chuckled and reached forward to replace the regulator on the weapon.
The far doors clanged open. The light turned on at the front and invaded their shadows. The lid of the crate was open. Ben held the regulator, and she had the SAW in her hands. She gripped it close to suppress its rattling parts and moved as far from the light as possible without echoing her footsteps into the warehouse. Ben disappeared next to her. He crouched low, poised. His body wasn’t tense, but it was clear he was ready to leap into a fight if he had to.
The frustrated voice of Len the foreman barked out. “I thought we went over all this. Come on, Rob, it’s not that fucking complicated.” He walked down the center aisle, forty feet away from their position. Len spoke as if explaining to a child. “Green paint means it goes on a truck. Red goes on the choo choo train. So you don’t mix and match them in the staging areas. If they’re all the same color, then they’re easier to load. Get it?”
Another man defended himself. “Yeah, I got it. It’s just that your system doesn’t account for final destinations. Look...” He strode farther up the warehouse. If he spotted the lid off the crate, the battle would begin.
Adrenaline readied her. She knew how not to lock up with panic, but all of her muscles were taut in preparation to move. Ben silently slid his pistol from the holster on his vest. She balanced the SAW in one arm and did the same. For the first time in Morris Flats, her finger was on the trigger.
The man continued, “Red, red, red. But if we put them all on the same train car and they’re set for different destinations, we’re fucked.”
Len sighed out loudly. “That’s why they’re all grouped in the staging area. Batch by batch. But if you throw truck shit on a train, it messes the whole thing up.”
“So you’re saying that from here...” The man kept walking up the aisle. She watched Ben aim his pistol in the direction of the voices. The man had no idea of the danger and was nearly yelling. “All the way to here is one load for a train.”
“That’s right.” Len patronized him. “Nice and organized until you guys find odd cargo to throw in here and fuck it up.” The two of them were ten feet from the open crate. She scanned for multiple escape routes. If she fired a shot, she would have to run. “All I need from you is to ask before you start slinging that shit around and screwing the whole system.”
Silence. How far would they go? If the argument continued, it could carry them right next to Ben and Mary.
“Fine,” the man spat. “But that means you can’t bitch at me or the guys when we’re coming and asking where things go.”
Ben maintained his steady aim.
Len grumbled, “Then it’s a fucking deal.” His brisk footsteps receded up the aisle.
The other man remained motionless. Had he spotted the crate?
“Get some coffee.” Len shouted from the other side of the warehouse and swung the door open.
“Yeah.” The man called back, then muttered, “Fucking asshole.” He finally shuffled away from Mary and Ben’s position. After a few moments, the light in the warehouse turned out and the door slammed.
Ben let out a long breath. She released the tension that had strung between her shoulders. But neither of them completely relaxed. She waited until all the currents of air the men had stirred settled, then holstered her pistol. Ben did the same, and the two of them quickly reassembled the machine gun.
She carried it back to the crate and replaced the weapon. Ben pulled the next one, and they sabotaged the gas regulator on it and placed a tracker in the hollow grip. They took care of the last machine gun in the crate then replaced the lid and latched it. No signs of tampering. Whoever bought the weapons wouldn’t have any idea something was wrong until the barrel exploded and the bolt deformed.
The two of them ventured into another section of the warehouse, scanning over the boxes and cases in order to catalogue the illegal guns. Mixed in with the military weapons were other foreign-made models. AKs, pistols, submachine guns, as well as thousands of rounds of ammunition of all calibers.
“Oh, no.” She stopped at one long, hard plastic case, designed to carry only one weapon.
“Damn...” Ben patted her shoulder with sympathy. “They got your family.”
She opened the case and revealed a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, disassembled for transport. It was complete with two magazines, three boxes of match grade ammunition and a telescopic sight. She’d used this weapon to save a lot of lives, as recently as the Automatik operation against the Russian mob in the Mexican desert. “Tag it.”
Ben pulled out one of his trackers. “Best spot?”
“Underside of the upper receiver.” She lifted the part so he could get at a hidden area within. Thankfully, he was quick. She replaced the upper receiver in its spot and closed the case so she didn’t have to look at such a trusted tool bastardized for profit.
“Let’s bounce.” Ben pointed his thumb toward the window where they’d entered. “We got what we needed tonight.”
He was right. They’d identified the guns, tied them directly to Kit Daily and tagged them for tracking. Every second in the warehouse and near the rail yard increased their chances of being discovered. And without the rest of their strike team, it would be a nightmare for the two of them to go against the massing security forces.
They backtracked through the warehouse, away from the guns and back to the older pallets that weren’t going anywhere soon. Ben set up under the window. She pulled the chain to release the latch, and it swung wide with a creak. Once the sound died, she climbed Ben’s body and reached the open window. He ran up the wall to her hand, and the two of them balanced on the edge. She pulled the window down until there was just a small gap. Ben jumped to the ground while she used her knife to retrieve her magnet from the alarm switch. All traces of their ingress were removed. She closed the window, sheathed her knife and joined Ben at the base of the warehouse wall.