Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Every email in here is from the chief of police.
I scroll through, reading as rapidly as I can while copying the file to a flash drive, when voices sound in the hallway outside. I look around me, panic-stricken, as the voices come nearer. I read through what I can as quickly as possible, shaking like a paper in the wind as the flash drive finishes copying, when I hear someone at the door.
I bite my lip, my whole body shaking now as I yank the flash drive out, drop the laptop like it’s made of fire, shut the drawer, snap the lock back on and jumble the numbers. I sprint to the shared bathroom just as the handle of the office door turns.
I’m in the shower, fully clothed, when I hear him enter his office. Thankfully, he’s on the phone and doesn’t seem to suspect a thing. The shower washes away my tears.
Constantine was right.
My father was involved.
My father was behind everything.
Chapter 21
Constantine
I’ve been hunting all across the city. Nobody knows of a new supplier bringing in high-quality product. Yet, somehow, the streets are flush with drugs.
I shake down the dealers, demanding to know where they’re getting their product. Slowly but surely, Yury, Emmanuel, and I trace the source back to a warehouse in the old textile district.
The warehouse is in a pocket of Desolation cut off from the rest of the city by the new freeway route. These eight blocks are like a branch lopped off a tree, left to rot. Most of the businesses have boarded up their windows, and a few have burned to the studs, either from vandals or desperate owners hoping to collect insurance money.
Still, I notice brand new security cameras mounted on the corners of the warehouse, a sure sign that somebody thinks the contents are worth protecting.
Yury parks a street over. We approach from the back of the building, breaking in through the loading bay doors.
Stacks of plastic-wrapped pallet boxes fill the dark, cavernous space inside.
Yury moves to cut one open, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t you want to see what’s in them?” he murmurs.
“That’s not the real product,” I tell him. “Look…”
I draw my finger across the top of the closest pallet, leaving a trail through the thick dust. Nobody has moved these pallets in months.
Emmanuel peers around through the gloom, edgy and keyed up.
“Maybe it was a bullshit tip,” he says.
“No,” I shake my head. “This is the place.”
I can feel it, a silent, thrumming energy that tells me the warehouse is not as deserted as it’s supposed to look. People have been coming through here, recently.
In fact, I can see footprints in the dust on the floor. Following the tracks further into the warehouse, we come to several crates that look much fresher than the others.
The lids have already been pried up, nails scattered around and a crowbar resting next to the crates.
I lift the lid, peering down onto dozens of neatly wrapped packages of pure Colombian cocaine. They’re all vacuum packed and sealed with the same black wax stamps.
“Guess we found the missing stash from the police locker,” Yury grins.
“What are we gonna do with it?” Emmanuel says, gazing down at all that beautiful white powder like we just opened a vein of pure gold in the heart of a mountain.
Before I can reply, a rough voice barks, “Don’t fucking move.”
When someone tells you not to move, the worst thing you can do is stay still. You turn around with your hands up, and you might as well kneel down and shoot yourself in the back of the head, saving them the trouble.
Yury and Emmanuel know this too, so at the same instant, all three of us dart apart, diving down behind the crates.
Bullets fly all around us, ripping chunks of wood out of the crates, sending splinters flying through the air.
I’m already pulling out my own Glock to return fire.
“Fuck,” Yury hisses, “It’s the cops.”
Sure enough, when I poke my head around the nearest crate, I see two uniformed officers hunkered down, firing at us.
Three more run down the cramped aisles, trying to surround us.
I shoot the closest one, hitting him above the knee. His leg crumples beneath him and he tumbles over. Emmanuel fires and misses. Yury hits a cop in the shoulder, but he’s wearing full Kevlar and it barely slows him down.
Bullets sink into the crates inches from my face as the cops fire recklessly and relentlessly, driving us back the way we came. I can still see Yury on my left, but I’ve lost sight of Emmanuel.
Gunfire echoes through the warehouse, the already dusty air filling with smoke. The smoke darkens and I hear a crackling sound. Rushing heat hits the side of my face.
“Fire!” someone shouts.
The warehouse is a tinderbox, the old crates dryer than dust and the air full of tiny flammable particles. The fire spreads rapidly, the air so thick and black that coughing overwhelms the sound of firing guns.