He planned this so far ahead of time, the entire area is prepped. That fact worries me more than anything else.
I step through the hole and slide into the moonlight shadows cast by the large steel freight containers waiting for pickup. Shelby wipes a profuse amount of sweat from his forehead before continuing forward. His breathing is strained, like he’s trying to keep it quiet, and we slow our pace.
Davis dawdles behind. He fumbles with his digital camera, dividing his attention.
The rail yard is massive. There are five full tracks for trains, two parking lots for trucks, one parking lot for employees, two loading and unloading docking stations, a storage area, and a two-story office near the gates. To my surprise, there are no lights illuminating the equipment—which is standard practice to deter thieves—but I suspect our thug friends have something to do with the darkness that engulfs the area like a thick blanket. We navigate our way closer to the men with uncertain steps, avoiding the areas bathed in moonlight, lest we get caught.
Once we reach a row of parked boxcars, I pull my handgun and press my back against the side of the car. Shelby does the same. Davis stops behind a stack of loaded crates a good fifty feet from us. Shelby attempts to motion him over, but Davis has eyes only for the camera. He’s doing something with the damn thing, and I have the sudden urge to shoot the device out of his hands.
I’ve seen the man operate a smartphone, for fuck’s sake, and those things have a hundred purposes. The digital camera has one function—to take pictures—yet somehow Davis treats it like a perplexing puzzle on par with a twelve-sided Rubik’s Cube.
The crunch of boots on gravel gets me tense. Shelby stops motioning for Davis and holds his handgun close. I sneak a glance around the boxcar and pull back a second later.
Two goons walk along the other side of the tracks. I didn’t see them when I originally glanced through the binoculars, but now that I know they’re here, I get worried. How many guys are in this rail yard? Not only that, but farther down the track, near the van, ten guys are loading and unloading man-sized crates. They seem to be replacing cargo in one of the boxcars, but I didn’t get a good enough look to say for sure.
What the fuck is going on here? Is this a drug deal? Are they smuggling guns?
The men work in silence and without flashlights. Even more evidence that they’re professionals. Gangbangers are sloppy, since most of them are dropout kids or druggies, but high-level crime pays enough to hire bruisers with experience. And with the number of guys here, the work they’re doing must pay bank.
I’ve seen enough of life on the streets to know that high-paying crime is cutthroat. If they find us, they’ll kill us.
No questions. No loose ends.
I already regret agreeing to Shelby’s deal. We aren’t in a position to deal with merciless killers. The reality of the situation sends ice through my veins, and my heart rate doubles.
“This was a mistake,” I mutter. “We need to head back.”
Shelby shakes his head. “We’re not leaving. They’re not getting away this time.”
This time? Fuck. The old man has a vendetta. He’s probably not even thinking straight.
Davis fumbles and snaps a picture—a bright flash lighting-up-the-area kind of picture—and my once-pounding heart seizes up in dread.
Within the next two seconds, men with guns converge on Davis’s location, four surrounding the crates Davis hid behind. Before I can get my bearings, the harsh crack of a handgun causes me to flinch. Davis hits the ground bleeding from a gaping chest wound while six more guys come circling round like sharks drawn to chum.
I know I can’t handle ten trained bruisers with guns. During the commotion, I shuffle back around the boxcar and stand in line with the steel wheels. Shelby dashes in another direction, sliding behind a separate boxcar. I watch the continuing scene through the open car doors, careful not lean too far out.
One thug walks up to the mewling form of Davis and takes another shot, this time to the back of Davis’s head.
They didn’t even bother to ask questions.
Two other guys search Davis’s still-warm corpse. I doubt they’re looking for a quick buck, but they go straight for his wallet.
“Who is this guy?” the shooter asks, his tone heated despite his low volume.
The goon searching shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He leafs through the contents of the wallet. “His name is Mark Davis.” He throws the contents to the dirt and picks up a small scrap of paper. “Look here. He’s a private investigator.”
“That’s a temporary license. He’s a PI in training.”
The statement leaves unspoken words that the whole group picks up on. If there’s a trainee, there has to be a trainer. The guy in charge—or at least the one acting like he’s in charge—swings a hand around over his head.
“Search the whole yard,” he commands. “Go in teams of two. Find the other one.” He glances back over to the van. “Pack it up! We don’t have any more time.”
The sudden energetic movement fills the air like the buzz of angry bees. I grab the handholds on the side of the boxcar and pull myself up, stopping halfway to the top and waiting, hidden in the shadows. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this shithole of a situation, but I’m not about to roll over and die either.
“This is the Joliet City Police,” Shelby shouts from two boxcars away. His voice chills the flurry of
