“Got a location,” Dax interrupted. “It’s coming from a block of warehouses off 301. Belongs to… Gorky Shipping. Surprise, surprise.”
“It’s four-thirty,” Ian said. “We need to get over there asap. If Angie’s not there, then we’ve got to get to the meeting by six and find out what Sobol wants.”
It was more than a matter of driving up to the warehouse and knocking on the door. They had to infiltrate a shipping company’s operations, which ran around the clock, and pinpoint the precise warehouse Angie was in. Then they had to breach it, disarm and disable any guards, and rescue her before the clock ran out.
If she wasn’t there, they had to make it across town to the meeting before her kidnapper decided they weren’t coming and killed her out of spite.
“Make a left turn at the next street,” Dax said.
Jared was driving and he did exactly what Dax told him to do for the next twelve minutes. Colt checked his weapons. The rest of them did the same. When they reached a spot about a mile from the warehouses, they ditched the SUV and went on foot.
It added time, but it was necessary to stealth.
They had to scale a brick wall and cut through barbed wire, then they skirted the perimeter. There were trucks backed up to loading docks and a steady pace of activity as trailers were loaded and unloaded.
Colt and his teammates wore black assault suits, night vision goggles, and they had state of the art weaponry. Each one of them had been a military special operator at some point, whether in the military of the United States or a foreign military, and they knew what they were doing. They weren’t cautious for their own sakes. They were cautious for Angie’s.
If a direct assault was needed, they’d do it. Not one of them gave a shit about killing anyone who intended to harm Angie. For now, stealth was the correct action. Until someone gave them a reason to abandon it.
Ian held up a hand when they reached the far end of the complex. One warehouse sat by itself, away from the rest. It was older and smaller than the others, a rusted hulk of a building with a crumbling loading dock. There was only one bank of windows with light spilling over the sills. A single entry door stood on the dock level near the windows. There were also two loading bays with their sliding doors all the way down.
A white van sat in front of the building along with a sleek McLaren.
Ian signaled Jared, Ty, and Brett to head around the right side of the building. It was understood they’d report if they found anything. Ty snapped shots of the license plates as they went, using the digital camera embedded in his goggles. He would send them to Dax, and they’d know who owned the vehicles in minutes.
Jace and Colt crept over and slapped trackers on the car frames, then took the left side of the building with Ian, moving through the overgrowth that swept up the side and onto the roof. It was probably kudzu, except it was too dark to know for sure. Halfway down the side of the building, the path cleared and a metal staircase appeared. It went up to the second floor of the warehouse. A door with a padlock stood at the top of the stairs.
Colt looked at Ian. Ian nodded and Colt started up the rickety structure, being careful to move slowly so he didn’t make too much noise. If anyone saw him, he’d be a sitting duck up there. When he got to the top, he tried the lock. It was newer than the door. He dug into the gear at his belt and produced a set of picks. Then he went to work on the padlock.
“Red team, report,” Ian said in his ear. “Black team’s found a door. We’re breaching.”
“Nothing to report,” Jared said.
“Watch for movement in front,” Ian told him.
“Roger that.”
“Let’s get inside and see if she’s there,” Ian said. “We have approximately fifteen minutes before we need to hit the road if not.”
Colt buckled down and worked harder on popping the lock. It was supposed to be pick proof, but they hadn’t planned for the likes of him.
Colt could pick anything.
Paul knew what he had to do. It was too late to salvage the situation so he was going to do what Charles had wanted in the first place. Fucking Charles and his goddamn conscience. The dude had stolen plenty of dirty money from Steve and hadn’t cared where it came from.
Get some Afghani terrorists involved and suddenly he was the Virgin fucking Mary.
Now, the only way out Paul could see involved selling Steve and his sons down the river. His sister would get over it eventually. Maybe.
Before Paul did it, however, he was going to use Angie Turner to get himself a new identity. A new face, a new name, new everything. Ian Black hated the mafia, but he was a man of his word. Paul had heard that often enough whenever Black’s name came up. Steve hated him, but he also kind of perversely admired him.
Paul stood. Tommy looked up at him. Tommy was a sociopath who never shrank from dirty deeds. Tommy liked killing. Marco, though… Marco was calmer, cooler. He did what needed doing, but Paul didn’t think he particularly got any pleasure from it. Further, Paul suspected Marco was there to report back to Steve more than he was there to do Paul’s bidding.
“Time to head to the meeting,” Paul said.
Tommy was spinning the gun he’d taken from Colt Duchaine’s place around his finger like a toy. If he shot himself, Paul wouldn’t waste any time calling an ambulance.
“Want me to stay here with the girl?” he asked. There was a strange light in his eyes
