Chapter 8 - THE WAREHOUSE AT THE CANAL
The south canal was a graveyard of American industry. Decaying brick smokestacks jutted into the rain like broken teeth, surrounded by acres of weed-choked asphalt, rusted shipping containers, and chain-link fences topped with concertina wire.
The warehouse stood at the end of an unpaved service road. Four luxury SUVs were parked near the loading dock, their engines cold, their headlights dark. Two men with umbrella-covered shotguns paced the perimeter, smoking cigarettes under the corrugated eaves.
I parked three hundred yards away, behind an overturned railroad boxcar.
I knew the layout of these 1930s manufacturing plants. They were built for assembly lines: high ceilings, exposed steel girders, skylights along the central spine, and secondary drainage channels running straight beneath the floor to dump industrial runoff into the river.
I didn't approach the gates. I slipped into the drainage ditch, my boots sinking into the wet mud, and followed the concrete culvert directly beneath the building’s foundation.
A heavy iron grate blocked the inlet. I reached into my kit, pulled out a small hydraulic jack I used for truck tires, wedged it between the rusted bars, and pumped the handle twice. The metal groaned, rusted rivets sheared off with sharp, pistol-like cracks muffled by the rain, and the grate swung open wide enough for a man to slip through.
I crawled up into the subterranean utility room.
The air was warmer here, thick with the smell of high-grade cigar smoke, stale beer, and blood.
Above me, voices echoed through the floorboards.
“...get the cash into the third vehicle,” Victor Vance’s voice cut through the ambient noise, calm, authoritative, completely in command. “We cross into Canada by dawn. Callahan said the warrant will be squashed by noon tomorrow, but I don't trust the feds. Ward has been sniffing around Fourth Street all week.”
“What about Dustin?” another voice asked.
I peered through the wooden slats of an old freight elevator shaft.
In the center of the warehouse, an impromptu ring had been set up—four heavy ropes tied between steel support pillars. Inside the ring sat Dustin Cole, his hands tied behind a metal folding chair. His face was swollen, his lips split. He was crying, his nose running, the absolute picture of a shattered coward.
Standing over him was Victor Vance, flanked by three men in dark tactical gear carrying submachine guns.
“Dustin was a tool,” Vance said, checking a platinum watch on his wrist. “Tools wear out. When they become dangerous to the craftsman, you melt them down. He stays here. When the fire starts, the narrative is simple: an out-of-control athlete, high on synthetic narcotics, burned his own training facility in a fit of paranoia.”
“Uncle Victor, please!” Dustin screamed, his voice cracking into high-pitched sobs. “I did what you told me! I kept her quiet! I swear I didn't tell her anything about the shipping manifests!”
“You let an old man walk into your gym, break your lead fighter’s ribs, and walk out with an audio recording,” Vance said, turning his back on him with cold disgust. “You are not a fighter, Dustin. You are a clown in short pants. Light the drums.”
One of the men stepped forward with an industrial blowtorch.
May you like
I reached to my belt, took the heavy tactical flashlight, set the strobe function to maximum lumens—twenty-four hundred lumens of disorienting, high-frequency white light—and pulled the master breaker lever on the wall beside the elevator.
***
