From his vantage point, he saw the upper halves of buildings and caught snatches of shouted conversations, but most importantly, he heard nothing that sounded like an alert or warning that he’d been spotted. He was in—next he just had to get inside the building. For that, he was going to need a better disguise, preferably something in a white lab coat with an accompanying key card to get through the door.
The semi rumbled around to the back of the building and the driver began maneuvering his trailer into a dock.
The driver’s door swung open with a creak, and Bolan heard muffled clomps as the driver climbed down, greeting another person in rapid Spanish. Bolan knew enough of the language to keep up, but he was hard-pressed to follow their quick bursts of conversation. Peeking out, he saw two men standing near the semi’s rear wheels, one in a white coat reviewing paperwork, the other in cowboy boots, jeans and a white T-shirt, with a sweat-stained cowboy hat pushed back in his head. The two finished their conversation and the lab-coated man pointed to another building across the parking lot. With a nod, the man wearing the cowboy hat ambled in that direction, while man in the lab coat, still reading paperwork, began walking back to the main building.
Bolan wouldn’t have a better shot.
Giving the man a two-step head start, he checked left and right to make sure he wasn’t about to emerge in plain view of another worker. The rest of the trailer dock was empty. Bolan eased himself onto the back of the semi and jumped down to the ground on the opposite side of the trailer. Jogging parallel to the man heading back to the building, he ducked and crossed underneath the trailer, dodging around the large spare tire in its holder to see the backs of the man’s legs as he walked on. It looked like he was about to head away from the trailer toward a concrete stairway leading into the building.
Glancing around one last time to make sure no one was nearby, Bolan drew his Beretta as he stepped out from under the trailer. Closing the distance between him and the employee in two large steps, he slammed the gun’s butt on the back of the man’s neck, knocking him unconscious. Grabbing both him and his clipboard before he could fall over, Bolan dragged the guy back under the trailer.
His victim had everything Bolan needed—the white lab coat, a clipboard with papers on it and an identification badge that looked like it could get him inside. As he dressed, Bolan was mildly concerned about mixing with so many Hispanics, but he also knew that half of pulling off a successful infiltration was simply looking like you belonged wherever you were. The lab coat’s sleeves were a bit short, but Bolan was counting on the ubiquitous jacket to turn him into just one more company man.
Leaving the unconscious man tucked between the wheels, Bolan pretended to read the paperwork on the clipboard as he left the dock area and headed around the building. He scanned along the side and spotted a door about a third of the way down. From his quick memorization of the building plans, this entrance should take him into the warehouse section of the building, where Cristobal stored large quantities of basic chemicals used in their procedures. Given enough time, Bolan thought he could find something that would produce a suitable bang in the area, but he had to find Casey Hinder and her daughter first before he could turn to sabotage.
Approaching the entrance, he ran the ID card through the slot next to the locked door, and was gratified to hear the click of it opening. He slipped inside, and as expected found himself in a large loading area with tall shelves filled with various supplies. Forklifts and men in lab coats similar to the one he wore were everywhere, filling orders, shouting commands and directing the flow of materials, but no one gave Bolan a second glance. Locating a door on the far wall to his left, the soldier walked unhurriedly to it. This one didn’t have a card slot, so he just pushed through it.
The din of the loading area subsided to a dull roar. Bolan found himself in a quiet hallway with a row of thick glass windows on the far wall. On the other side was another large room that looked like a laboratory, with men and women clad entirely in one-piece white suits from head to two, wearing full-face masks and respirators. They were making a huge batch of something, although Bolan couldn’t tell if it was meth.
Remembering the floor plans, Bolan decided to head to the front of the building. Since it was unlikely that Cristobal had any kind of detention facility, Casey and her daughter were more likely to be held in some kind of improvised room—a storeroom, for example, or perhaps a converted office. The only problem was finding it in the more than 150,000-square-foot facility without being discovered first.
Keeping his eyes on the clipboard, he proceeded down the hallway. He passed several more doors on his left, all of them made of metal and thick glass, with keypads and signs warning of biohazardous material and stating that all personnel should take appropriate safety precautions before entering the laboratory. One door opened as he passed, with three white-suited people emerging. Bolan didn’t give them a second glance, and they didn’t acknowledge his presence, either.
The hallway ended in another set of double doors. Without breaking stride, he pushed through, still pretending to be engrossed in his paperwork. A quick glance around revealed that he was in some kind of entrance hall, with at least two dozen people coming and going, each intent on his or her own task. At the far end was a bank of elevators that was constantly in motion, with a steadily moving line of people in front of it. A high wooden counter on the far wall in front of the main entrance doors was manned, but the two people behind it didn’t seem to be interacting with anyone in the room. Bolan felt his frustration rising. Without some kind of guidance, he had no way of finding Casey and her daughter. It looked like he would have to ask for some assistance.
He walked toward the elevators, acutely aware that he was at least four to six inches taller than everyone else in the large room. Still, no one seemed to give him a second glance. Joining the elevator line, Bolan shuffled forward with the rest until he was packed onto a clean, sterile-smelling car with the others. People got off and on at various floors—there were five, he noted—and by the time he reached the top of the building, there was one other person with him, another lab guy with tousled blond hair and a distracted air who was constantly texting on a smartphone. Bolan thought about interrogating him but decided against it. The guy was probably too wrapped up in whatever he was working on to notice any prisoners, much less women, being brought into the building.
The elevator dinged their arrival, and Bolan let the other man leave ahead of him. The foyer outside was tiled in marble, but the double doors to his right were hardwood and attended by a gray-suited man who was obviously a security guard.
Bolan’s interest increased. Anywhere people weren’t supposed to go usually meant that was where the company was keeping things—or people—it didn’t want others to have access to. What better place to start looking?
He followed the scientist to the door, where they were blocked by a guard named Hernando, as his name tag indicated. The man walked up and presented his badge, which the guard scanned with a hand reader. Apparently he checked out, because the door opened, and he walked through. Bolan caught a glimpse of plush carpeting and walls covered in dark cherrywood.
Bolan tried to bluff his way through by following the first man, but the guard stopped him with a hand on his chest. “ID badge, please.”
“Oh, sure—sorry.” Bolan handed it over. The guard scanned it and read the output on his small screen with a frown.
“You’re not cleared for access to this level. Where are you—” The guard’s question trailed off as he looked closer at the ID card, seeing no resemblance between the picture and the man standing in front of him. He reached for the microphone on his shoulder, but Bolan stopped him with a gentle poke.
“Don’t touch that.” He shifted his clipboard to the side enough for the guard to see, but not for any overhead cameras to spot what was happening.
The guard looked down to see the silenced muzzle of a Beretta 93-R pressed into his stomach. He took a sudden br
eath and started to raise his hands.
“No, no—keep them at your sides. That’s right, just act naturally.” Bolan reached down and unplugged the guard’s mike from the walkie-talkie on his belt. He also slipped the man’s canister of pepper spray from its clip and put it in his own pocket. “Try anything stupid, and I will gut-shoot you and leave you here to die.”
“Who are you? What the hell do you want?”
Bolan kept his ear open for the elevator behind him. “De Cavallos brought two women here from town, and I’m here for them,” he replied.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
Bolan increased the pressure on the man’s abdomen. “Then I guess I’ll have to shoot you and leave you here to maybe get help eventually. You ever seen a gut-shot man? They bleed something awful, scream and cry while they bleed out slowly. Recovery takes weeks.”
Beads of sweat popped out on the man’s hairline. “Look, I got a wife and three kids at home—”
Bolan thumbed the hammer back on his pistol. “Hope they’ll like visiting you in the hospital for the next few weeks. You either help me now or get used to eating through a tube.”
“All right! All right! Those two aren’t even in this building. They’re being held in a smaller outbuilding elsewhere on the site. Looks like you came all the way up here for nothing.”
“No problem.” Bolan grabbed the guard’s shoulder with his free hand. “You’re going to take me to them.”
“What? No way, I can’t leave my post, I’ll be canned for sure.”
“Alive and unemployed is better than your widow collecting your last paycheck, wouldn’t you agree, Hernando? Let’s move.”
He slipped behind the guard and prodded him toward the elevator. Hernando glanced back, sweat trickling down the side of his face. “You know they’re going to investigate why I’m going without leave in about one minute, right?”
“Well, then, you better hope this elevator doesn’t stop at every floor on the way down.”
The elevator chimed, and the two men stared at the pair of chemists about to disembark. “Shouldn’t there be a guard on duty up here at all times?”
Hernando remained silent until Bolan jabbed his kidney with the Beretta. “Uh, they’re sending up a replacement in just a few minutes. I’m needed elsewhere in the building.”
“Can’t you just buzz us in now?”
“Sorry, we’ve got to go.” Bolan shoved Hernando past the two men and hit the button for the ground floor. Their shocked looks were the last things he saw as the doors closed.
“Oh, man, you’re in for it now. They’re gonna make some calls, and you’ll be screwed.”
“Just remember—if you ever want to see your kids again, you get me out of here and to that building.”
The guard had the balls to look put upon, even with a gun in his ribs. “Damn man, why me?”
“You were the first guard I came across, that’s why.”
“My lucky fucking day.”
“You’re doing fine so far. Remember, just act naturally as we head to the front doors and don’t stop for anyone.”
Luck was on Bolan’s side this time. They got to the ground floor without anyone else getting on. The doors opened, and Bolan escorted his captive out of the elevator and across the room. As before, no one took much notice of the pair. At the front doors, Hernando made to swipe his card through the slot, but Bolan stopped him. “Nope, use mine.”
With a resigned sigh, the guard did as he was told. The door clicked open. “Let me guess,” Bolan hissed as he shoved the man through the door. “Using your card would have set off some kind of alarm because you aren’t where you’re supposed to be here, right?”
“Something like that. Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Your loyalty to your company when the alternative means severe, painful injury is admirable, to a point. You do know what they make here, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I’m in security, not the janitorial staff. I’m not stupid, but the pay is good, and until you showed up, there wasn’t much to do. No one was crazy enough to break in to this company.”
“Yeah, I have a bad habit doing things my way.” They made it to the corner of the huge building, and Bolan spotted a small house trailer with two men guarding the front door. He sighed. “Don’t tell me they’re being held in there.”
“What tipped you off, the guards? Yeah, that’s where they are.”
“All right, keep those feet moving.”
Hernando slowly started walking. “And what am I supposed to tell them when we get there? If they don’t receive confirmation from De Cavallos about you going in, we’re both dead.”
“You let me worry about that.” Bolan glanced around as they got closer. No one was nearby. Apparently security kept a wide perimeter around their guests.
“We are so not going to get away with this.”
“Not with that attitude, we’re not.” By this point they were only a few yards away. Bolan took one last look around—still no one else in sight on this side of the building. “Engage the guard on the left. Tell him you have orders to relieve him.”
Although the morning heat was rising fast, neither of the pair looked uncomfortable in the least. They both stood at parade rest, their eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, their uniforms clean and pressed. Bolan’s experienced gaze sized both up as professionals—a bluff wasn’t going to get them far.
“Hey, Miguel! They want you inside, something about the alarm system on level three not working.”
The man on the left regarded the two men through his shades. “Haven’t heard anything about reporting back in. I’m gonna have to confirm it—”
The whoop of an alarm siren blared across the compound, making every head but Bolan’s turn toward the large building. The guard on the right looked back at Hernando and the chemist in the ill-fitting lab coat and put it together first, his hand grabbing for his sidearm. Tossing the clipboard in the left man’s face, Bolan raised his Beretta and shot the drawing guard through the right eye. As he started to collapse, the other man had just gotten the clipboard and papers out of his face when a 9 mm subsonic bullet shattered his forehead and burrowed deep into his brain.
“Thanks, Hernando.” Bolan pistol-whipped the guard across the back of the head, sending him sprawling to the ground. The soldier leaped up the stairs and pounded on the door. “Casey, are you in there?” he shouted over the din of the alarm.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Department of Justice! Get as far back from the door as you can!” Bolan gave them a five count, then put several bullets into the aluminum around the knob. With a powerful kick, he smashed open the door and stepped inside.
The trailer was a former office, modified to serve as a temporary holding cell. The nearly bare space, containing only a battered metal desk and two flimsy folding chairs, was already roasting in the prairie heat, reeking of perspiration and urine. “Matt Cooper, I’ve come to get you out of here!”
“Oh, thank God!” Casey’s dirty, sweat-streaked face appeared from behind the desk, followed by her daughter. “Department of Justice? I thought you were a journalist,” Casey said with some confusion, but quickly realized this wasn’t the time to worry about such details. “Who’s with you, the FBI? Homeland Security?”
Bolan was already moving and was at the desk and taking her arm. “No, just me. We have to go, right now.”
“Just you? But how do you expect to get out—”
“No time to explain. You’ll have to trust me. Come on, we can’t stay here.” Guiding her to the door, Bolan kept her behind him as he checked the yard. Seeing no one coming so far, he pulled her out to the metal landing, checking to make sure that her daughter was following. “Can you handle a pistol?”
Casey nodded, then frowned. “Yes—wait, you mean like shoot someone?”
“More like just keep their heads down.” Boland led the two down the stairs, where Casey sucked in a breath whe
n she saw the two bodies.
“Oh God. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Bolan had already stripped the guards of their pistols and offered one, butt-first, to Casey. “It may make the difference between getting out and not.”
She grabbed it and nodded at her daughter. “Connie can handle one, too. She’s been shooting target since she was ten.”
Bolan was already walking toward the back of the main building. “Normally I’d prefer not to—no offense—but we don’t have much choice.” He handed her another pistol, sticking the third one in his belt. “Remember, just keep their heads down. You won’t have to aim at them.”
“Daddy always said to never use a gun unless you plan to hit what you’re aiming at,” the girl said, holding the SIG-Sauer firmly with both hands.
“In that case, aim for the second floor of the building—you can’t miss.” The back wall of the massive structure seemed to stretch on forever, and Bolan was concerned that they would be caught in a cross fire or ambush before reaching their goal. He kept glancing back, expecting to hear shouts and gunfire from the trailer at any moment. Finally they got close to the corner. Bolan came to a stop a few feet away, motioning them to stay back. “Casey, watch behind us.”
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